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LIBRARY OF THE THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY 


PRINCETON. N. J. 





PURCHASED BY THE HAMILL MISSIONARY FUND. 


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Digitized by the Internet Archive 
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https://archive.org/details/peacockspagodasO0edmo 


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PEACOCKS AND PAGODAS 





PYATTHAT AND CHINTHES 


| Front. 


RY OF PAY 
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KITV 1] 1925 





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Leica SEM 


PEACOCKS AND 
Fe GOOFS 


/BY 


- PAUL “EDMONDS 


WITH A FRONTISPIECE 
and 
FORTY-FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS 


NEW YORK: E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 
LONDON : GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & SONS, LTD. 


1925 








, 


EADLEY BROTHER 


ASHFORD 


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} 


DEVONSHIRE STREET, E.C.2 


PRINTED IN GREAT B 


18, 


To E. H. JONES, ARTHUR BLAKE, 
AND THE MANY OTHER HOSPITABLE ENGLISH FOLK 


WHO ENTERTAINED THE AUTHOR DURING HIS VISIT TO BURMA, 


Ja 


') 





THE author acknowledges with thanks the 
courtesy of Messrs. Macmillan & Co. in 
allowing him to make quotations from 
The Burman, His Life and Notions, by Sir 
George Scott, and of Messrs. Hutchinson & 
Co. in permitting the use of an extract from 
Dr. Marks’ Forty Years in Burma. His 
thanks are also due to Mr. R. Swinhoe, of 
Mandalay, for permission to quote his 
poem “The Wild Kachin” from The 


Incomplete Guide to Burma. 


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Contents 


CHAPTER I 
PAGE 
I go to Burma—tThe Soul of a People—I arrive at Rangoon—A 
European BEDE Ore 77 Re Been Beta HEDAY SU Dia ee s 
House - - I 


CHAP HET 711 


Impressions of Rangoon—A Burmese Band—tThe Street of the 
Umbrella Makers—Tinkly Temple Bells—Elephants—Pongyis 
—Mulligatawny Soup—Conventions of the British Community 
—A Tropical Rainstorm—Cinemas ~ - - - 154 


CHAPTER III 


European Dress—The Municipal Doctor Sahib—Shopping in 
Rangoon—A Burmese Family—Burmese Dress—A Misunder- 
standing—Dengue Fever - - - - - - - 28 


CHAPTER IV 


Up the Irrawaddy—The Delta Country—Bathing Girls—At 
See  kake Lire adc y Yarns—Customs at Child- 
birth - . - : : 43 


CHAPTER V 


Footwearing Prohibited—At Prome—Miss Pilkington’s Cockroach 
—Writing Reports—Thare-kettara—aA School, a Dentist, and 
a Joss-house—Wife Beating —Thayetmyo—Minla—The Story 
of Nga Myat E—A Snake Story - - 64 


CHATIERI VI 


At Minbu—The Myinmu Rebellion—The Footprints of Gaudama 
—I reach Magwe—and dine with the Commissioner—My 
“ Boy,” Valu—The Oilfields of Yenangyaung - - - 89 


CHAPTER VII 
Burmese Music - - - -- - - - meer 
CHAPTER VIII 
Politics in Burma—The Upright Judge—Bribery and Corruption 127 
1x 


Contents 


CHAPTER IX 


Superstitions of the Burmese—Hla Tin in Trouble—The Library of 
U Ponnya—Sketching a Pongyi—Violent Crime—An Extra- 
ordinary Case—Murder—A Sidelight on Burman Psychology 
—With the Jungle Folk—Old-time Methods—Rarity of 
Murder by Women~ - - - . - - - - 


CHAPTER X 


At Nyoungoo—Making Lacquer-work—The Assistant Goal-keeper 
—The Ferry-Boat—At Myingyan—The Golden City—In the 
Second Defile—A Monkey Story—Bhamo at Night - - 


CHAPTER XI 


Christmas Day—Shan Workmen—A Cold Night—Through the 
Jungle—A Kachin Village—About the Kachins—Morality, 
Courtship and Marriage—Kachin Folk-lore—The Wild Kachin 


CHAPTER Kaa) 


Departure from Bhamo—Thabeitkyin—The Drive to the Ruby 
Mines—Mogok—-The Ruby Mines—Snake Stories—The 
Dangers of Hair-washing—‘‘ Just Sitting ’—Spirit Worship 
—A Nightmare—-A Chest of Rubies” - - - - - 


CHAPTER AlIll 


King Mindon Min’s Church—The Mandalay Massacres—A 
Burmese Service—Pi-dogs—The Palace of Mindon Min— 
Mosquitoes—The Arakan Pagoda—Leper Asylums—Chin-lon 
—Tattooing - - - - - - - - - 


CHAPTER XIV 
The Myingyan Bazaar—Killing a Leopard—A Pipe of Opium— 
A Curious Case—Cheroot-making—Cotton and Pea-nuts— 
Shooting Snipe—A Buddhistic Law - . . - - 
CHAPTER XV 


Rounding-up Counterfeiters - - - s a ‘ Ly 


CHAPTER XVI 
Initiation to the Priesthood—Ear-boring—At Sameikkon—The 
Missing Wife—Opium Smuggling—A Railway Journey—Back 
in Rangoon—A Pwe—Pitfalls in the Burmese Language— 
Home again - - - - - - 2 ‘ - 


x 


PAGE 


139 


157 


174 


194 


214 


235 


250 


261 


List of Illustrations 


PYATTHAT AND CHINTHES - - - - - - Frontispiece 

PAGE 
CHAPTER HEADING - - - < * be = ft 3 I 
THE PEGU JAR - - - - ) - Ps * : 10 
A PONGYI - - - - - * - “ ES 2 15 
FETCHING WATER - - - - “ és « - x 25 
RAFT AND BOATS ON THE IRRAWADDY - - - . - 4! 
MORNING ON THE IRRAWADDY - . - - - - - 46 
A SAMPAN - - - - = = = ia zs pe 47 
A RIVERSIDE VILLAGE - - - - - = & 49 
AT THE RIVERSIDE - - . - - - . - - 51 
PASSENGERS ON THE AFTER-DECK - - - - - - 55 
EVENING ON THE IRRAWADDY~ - > > - - - > 56 
BABIES - - - - rs . - x . . 5 59 
HEAD OF CHINTHE AT PROME~ - - - - - - - 67 
PLANK AND BAMBOO BRIDGE - - - - - - - 69 
A BANYAN TREE - - - - e . ba e : 71 
IN THE BAZAAR - - - - - - “ : . 73 
YOUNG GIRL - - - - - - = « “ 2 75 
HUT ON THE RIVER BANK - - - - > ~ - > 80 
A TOP-KNOT - ~ - - - - ~ = te ‘ 81 
A RIVERSIDE VILLAGE - - - ~ = = - . 87 
CHINTHE AND PYATTHAT - - - - ° = “ 93 


List of Illustrations 


PAGE 
A PYATTHAT - - - - = - - = : 3 To2 
OIL RIGS AT YENANGYAUNG - - - ~ - - - 108 
TODDY PALMS - - - - ° = . 2 ee 
CHAPTER HEADING - . - - - - - - - 139 
ON THE IRRAWADDY - - - - - - - oh ee 
PADDY BOATS) - - - - - : - : - oa Se 
BOATS ON TNE IRRAWADDY - - - - - - eae i. 
ARTISTS DRAWING ON LACQUER WITH THE STYLUS) - - Pie SG 
PAGODAS . - - - - - - ~ - > 163 
SANDBANKS - - - - - - - - - - 170 
SHAN TAYOKS~ - - - - - - - - - mile) EE 7S 
A SHAN BOY - - - - - - - . - - 174 
WAITING FOR THE FERRY - - - - . - - 195 
POTTERY SELLERS AT MOGOK - - - - - - - 200 
CHATTY SELLERS - - - - - - - - ~The 
SORTING STONES - - - - - - - - cian Ly 
IN THE OUTER BAZAAR AT MANDALAY - - - - - 224 
CHIN-LON - - - ~ - - - - - = 231 
A VILLAGE SHOP - : - - - - - - - 237 
COUNSEL FOR THE DEFENCE - + > - - - a Bae 
CHEROOT MAKERS - - - - - - - - = i hoe 
IN A VILLAGE STREET ~ - - - - - - - 263 
WASHERWOMEN - - - - . - - - - 267 


PEACOCKS AND PAGODAS 


CHAPTER I 


I go to Burma—tThe Soul of a People—I arrive at Rangoon 
—A European Bungalow—The Pegu Jar—Papaya Fruit— 
Blake’s House. 


Tus book contains nothing whatever about 
peacocks and very little about pagodas. 
Yet the title is not inappropriate, since the 
peacock is the emblem of Burma and the 
pagoda one of the outward signs of a 
religion that has done much _ towards 
making the Burmese a happy people— 
perhaps the happiest and most contented 
people in the world. 

The Englishman believes that wealth 
is better than happiness, or at least synonymous with it. 
The Burman knows that happiness is better than 
wealth. That sums up roughly one of the main 
differences between them. The Burman does not share 
that fear of poverty which is the hell of so many English 
people, nor does the maxim of the West, “ Make 
money! honestly if possible—but make money!” find 
I 





Peacocks and Pagodas 


any place in his philosophy. The European will tell you 
that the Burman is lazy and thriftless; but just as thrift 
carried to excess may become a vice, so a reasonable thrift- 
lessness may often be a virtue, especially that thriftlessness 
which prefers spending money on others to hoarding it ina 
stocking. The Burman, when his harvest is good enough 
to enable him to repay his loan to the “ chetty ” and still 
have money over, distributes rice to those less fortunate 
than himself, or builds a pagoda, or gives a “ pwe,” 
or festival, to the village, or possibly, being a person with 
the sporting instinct strongly developed, will gamble away 
the whole lot on the races. At all events, in some manner, 
good or bad, he gets rid of his superfluous cash, and in 
consequence there is in Burma no such growing gulf between 
rich and poor, with all its resultant misery and discontent, 
as there is in England and America. This is a good thing ; 
let us hope it will continue! Contact with Europeans, 
however, and the assimilation of the civilisation upon which 
we unduly pride ourselves, seem likely eventually to break 
down the old traditions. Moreover, Buddhism, which 
is in the main, I believe, ethically sound, and well 
suited to an Eastern people, cannot continue to exist in a 
country which has once adopted Western democratic ideas ; 
and the priests of Burma, who are to-day preaching the 
doctrines of Communism in their temples and “ kyaungs”’ 
and spreading sedition in the rising generation, are un- 
wittingly compassing their own downfall and the destruction 
of their religion. Even a fine-weather tourist like myself— 
a 


The Soul of a People 


“fine-weather tourist ” being the half-contemptuous 
appellation given by British residents to the casual winter 
visitor—can hardly fail to remark the attitude of the young 
Burman of the town towards Europeans. It is “‘ Burma 
for the Burmese ”’ to-day, just as recently it was “ Ireland 
for the Irish,”’ though whether the Burmese are capable of 
governing the country themselves with a parliament chosen 
by popular vote is a very doubtful question. Educated 
Burmese with whom I have talked say that they can. The 
English residents, almost to a man, say that they cannot. 
Which of the two is right I do not know; but of one thing 
I am reasonably certain, namely that the Burmese are 
running a grave risk of losing that philosophic outlook which 
has made them hitherto such a happy and contented people. 
“What shall it profit a man if he shall gain the whole world 
and lose his own soul? ”’ 

This quotation leads me very naturally to a book which 
was the origin of my desire to visit Burma—Fielding 
Hall’s “‘ The Soul of a People.’”” Those who know Burma 
well say that it is too idealistic and too exaggerated to be 
taken seriously. Perhaps they are right. But after all, 
books that have to be taken seriously are often dull; 
and who enjoys reading a dull book? “The Soul of a 
People ’”’ is the only book about Burma that I have so far 
read which succeeds in really conveying the outlook of the 
Burman. The average Englishman or American is slow to 
realise that an outlook different from his own is even 
possible ; to bring him to see life through Oriental eyes, 


3 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


though ever so dimly, is an achievement which fully 
justifies a certain amount of exaggeration. 

I had the desire, then, to visit Burma and see the country 
and its people for myself. But desire is one thing, opportunity 
another, and it was not until 1922 that my chance came. 
The wave of economy that swept official circles at that time 
caused me to find myself temporarily one of the unemployed. 
Co-incident with this came an invitation from a friend to 
stay with him in Rangoon. The finger of fate seemed to be 
pointing Eastwards and I decided to go. 

There are two lines running to Rangoon, the Bibby and 
the Henderson ; and in connection with the two I discovered 
later a remarkable phenomenon. It is customary, I found, 
for people who happen to have come out on a Henderson 
liner to volunteer the explanation that they have only 
done so because no accomodation was available on the 
Bibby. Why this explanation should be necessary I 
cannot imagine, unless it is due to the fact that passage 
by the Henderson line is slightly cheaper. I travelled by 
the Henderson myself and was quite comfortable, and the 
reason I did so was that it suited my pocket. I did uot 
apply to the Bibby first and find all the accomodation 
taken up. Doubtless a shocking confession. 

Having cleared the air by this candid exposition, I am 
able, without a blush, to say that I found myself one morning 
in early November passing up the Rangoon River on board 
the Henderson liner “‘ Amarapoora.”’ The paddy fields on 
either side were bright with vivid green, and the golden spire 


4 


I arrive at Rangoon 


of the Shwe Dagon pagoda glittered in the sunshine far ahead. 
The same afternoon [ was met by my friend Jones, who helped 
me to get my belongings through the Customs and drove me 
off in his car through the busy streets of Rangoon City. 
Driving a car in Rangoon needs care and no small amount 
of patience. In addition to rapidly-moving motor vehicles 
there are “ gharries ’’ drawn at six miles an hour by skinny 
ponies, rickshaws with coolies in the shafts trotting at a 
speed of, say, four miles an hour, bullock carts surging along 
in unwieldy fashion at two miles an hour, and pedestrians 
strolling about everywhere or standing still in the middle of 
the street engaged in oblivious and animated conversation. 
Steering a way through such varied traffic is no easy matter, 
and the life of a “‘ shover’”’ in Rangoon must be an agitating 
one. 

The city is not impressive. The buildings have no 
architectural distinction, and the streets, in common with 
the streets of all the towns in Asia that I have seen, have an 
untidy look. Squalor and litter are the two dominant 
notes even in the main streets. The side streets are worse— 
rabbit warrens of huddled native shops swarming with 
people, thick with smells, full of dirty children, pi-dogs, 
rubbish and general filth. But they are unquestionably 
picturesque. For some unexplained reason dirt is generally 
picturesque. Why is it? A _ well-dressed Englishman 
walking down Bond Street in creased trousers, morning coat, 
white spats, silk hat, and with a pearl pin in his immaculate 
tie, may be smart but cannot be called picturesque ; whereas 


5 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


the ragged beggar standing at the curb with matches for sale 
often is so. There is no end of this particular type of 
picturesqueness in Rangoon. 

“Rangoon,” however, “isnot Burma,’’ as every European 
is careful to explain to the visitor. In a sense perhaps it 
is not—in the sense, for example, that Limehouse is not 
London. At the same time it is the capital, the largest port, © 
and the seat of government ; therefore if it were populated 
with Esquimaux from the Arctic or Australian aborigines it 
would still be Burma, or part of Burma. It is a very 
cosmopolitan city. Of its quarter-million inhabitants, only 
about 2,000 are European. The rest are largely Indians— 
Madrasi and Bengali. The Burmese are in a minority 
except in certain outlying parts such as Kemmendine. John 
Chinaman with his thrifty business ways is almost as firmly 
established as the Indian. And there are representatives of 
many other nationalities,anda babel, Iam told, of no fewer 
than forty different tongues. But itis the Burman with his 
love for bright colours who contributes the distinctive accent. 

A Burmese crowd at a festival is a delightful sight and 
as different from, for example, an English crowd on Cup-tie 
day as light from darkness. No wonder the English take 
their pleasures sadly. If clothes do not actually make the 
man, they have unquestionably a big influence on his 
psychology. To see the happy Burman sporting his holiday 
““pasoh’”’ of ruby silk, his head kerchief of orange (which 
somehow never seems to clash) and his brightly coloured 
paper umbrella, is to wish for a return of the good old times 


6 


A European Bungalow 


when we men, as well as women, were not afraid to go 
abroad in all the bravery of colour. But suggest it now and 
see what answer you get! Either, “‘ Well, you see, it isn’t 
done, my dear fellow ! ’—which is no real argument at all— 
or “‘ Too expensive ! ’’—which is an argument based on our 
habit of “‘ thinking commercially’’ and not much more 
valid than the other. The Burman never “ thinks 
commercially’; he can therefore go and squander a 
couple of hundred rupees on a “‘ pasoh,”’ if he happens 
to have the cash, without any heart-searching or qualms 
of conscience. 

Jones, I found, was living with his friend, Dr. Blake, 
in the doctor’s bungalow at Kandawglay. The bungalow 
adjoins the Chinese cemetery, and was at one time used as a 
school for young ladies. It happened, sad to say, that some 
of the pupils got, as the phrase goes, “‘ into trouble,’”’ and 
despite the scepticism of the authorities as to the plausible 
explanation put forward by the culprits—namely that spirits 
from the cemetery were the authors of the mischief !—the 
school was removed elsewhere. 

As the bungalow is typical, it may be of interest to 
describe it. To begin with, it differs from houses at home 
by having no front door. The entrance is into a hall open 
for its full width and sheltered by a porch and a trellis covered 
with creeper. A “‘ peon,’’ or messenger, is usually on duty 
there during the day, and a watchman at night. The hall 
is furnished with a goodly array of comfortable lounge chairs 
in basket-work, a table or two, a Burmese war-drum of metal 


7 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


several hundred years old, several plants on stands, some 
prints and some fine antlers and other sporting trophies. 
A rotary electric fan, or punkah, hangs from the ceiling, and 
can be set at slow, medium, or fast, as preferred. On either 
side of the hall are rooms, one used as dining-room, the other 
as a bedroom. A staircase, which can be closed by folding 
doors, and is always so closed at night, rises to the floor 
above. A spacious sitting room or lounge occupies the 
central portion of this floor and extends over the front porch. 
The outer walls are really a series of shutters which can be 
opened or closed at will. The windows are usually open, 
and are protected from the sun, when necessary, by outside 
blinds of bamboo matting. The roof has a wide overhang, 
in order to give still further protection from the sun as well 
as to keep away the vast streams of water that pour down 
in the rainy season. The room is provided with two 
electric punkahs, like the one in the hall below. On three 
sides there are doorways leading into bedrooms, dressing 
rooms and ante-rooms. These doors are seldom shut, a 
certain amount of privacy being obtained by curtains of some 
light material, through which the air can penetrate more or 
less freely. The partition walls do not go right up to the 
roof, but a generous amount of space is left for purposes of 
ventilation. Small green lizards, which assume, like chame- 
leons, a protective colouring according to their background, 
live in the crevices and come out and run at night over walls 
and ceiling, calling to one another with a bird-like chirrup. 
And sometimes you may see the big lizard called the tuk-too, 
8 


A European Bungalow 


a beast eight or nine inches long, and hear the monotonous 
cry from which he gets his name. 

The tuk-too bites, and I am told that there is a black 
species of tuk-too whose bite is dangerous. Nevertheless 
even Europeans who, in their superior way, despise the 
superstitions of the Burman, like to have tuk-toos in their 
houses because they are said to bring good luck. 

The lounge has a polished floor with tiger, leopard and 
other skins to take the place of a carpet and is furnished 
like any ordinary Western sitting-room. 

The bedrooms are large and airy. The beds are hung, 
of necessity, with mosquito curtains, since mosquitoes 
breed freely in the compound and without curtains sleep 
would be impossible. These pests always go for new blood 
and make the life of a newcomer a misery. Residents become 
to some extent immune after a time. These mosquitoes 
are, however, not malaria carriers and their bite causes no 
more serious harm than irritation and discomfort. 

The most un-English feature in a European house is the 
bathroom. Every bedroom has its own, but there is no 
full-length bath of white enamel, or porcelain, with hot and 
cold water-taps of shining brasswork, and no modern closet 
and drainage system. The usual furniture of the bathroom 
consists of a zinc tub, a tin mug with a handle which serves 
in place of a sponge, a washstand, a commode, and finally, 
when there is no water laid on—a luxury only possible in 
large towns like Rangoon—a great earthenware jar full of 
water. These jarsare called Pegu jars, from the place where 


2 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


they aremade. The bath and the Pegu jar both stand on a 
square of concrete, with a thick edge or rim all round and a 
hole in one corner through which the used water is drained 
off into the compound below. 


x Y, Xa Kx K . 


— 10H VO 
ee 


v/ 
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THE PEGU JAR 


/ 

An amusing story, though a chestnut, is told of an 
English lady who was visiting Burma for the first time. 
Being quite unaccustomed to the ways of the country, and 
desiring a bath, she went into the bathroom and there found 

10 


The Pegu Jar 


the empty zinc tub and the Pegu jar full of water that I 
have described. Somewhat puzzled, she undressed, and 
then managed, with considerable difficulty, to immerse 
herself completely in the big jar. Soon afterwards cries for 
help were heard issuing from the poor lady’s bathroom, and 
when the host and hostess rushed to the rescue, they found 
their guest firmly fixed in the jar, and quite unable to 
extricate herself. The subsequent proceedings, which 
involved the use of a hammer, are perhaps better left to the 
imagination than described in detail. 

What she ought to have done on her first entry into the 
bathroom was to utter a loud shout of “‘ Boy!’ An Indian 
“ pani-wallah ’’ would then have arrived up the back stair- 
case leading from the compound with a kerosene oil tin full 
of hot water. He would have poured the contents into the 
zinc tub and tempered the heat of the water by additions 
from the Pegu jar, and finally departed, closing the door 
discreetly behind him. She might have remarked that her 
bath water had a strong odour of smoke, but otherwise all 
would have been well. 

My bedroom at Dr. Blake’s had a verandah at the back 
looking over the compound to a “ pongyi kyaung,’’ or 
monastery. This consisted of a heterogeneous cluster of 
buildings, old and new, surrounded by a high brick wall. 
The buildings were partly of plaster, partly of wood, and 
partly, in fact largely, of corrugated iron. The roofs, rising 
one above the other, rather in the Chinese fashion, would 
have been picturesque but for this horrible corrugated stuff. 

II 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


But it is convenient material for roofing, and, I suppose, 
cheap. Even the magnificent palace of King Mindon Min, at 
Mandalay, as I found later, is roofed with it. The garden 
of the “‘kyaung’”’ contained palms, mangoes, plantains and 
papaya, besides other plants and shrubs whose names I do 
not know. The four trees mentioned all bear fruit. The 
papaya is a gourd-shaped affair of the melon type. Europeans 
eat it, but rather from a sense of duty. It is not very nice, 
but it contains a lot of pepsin and is good for the digestion ; 
it, therefore, makes a direct appeal to that curious streak in 
our psychology which impels us to do things we dislike doing 
because they are said to be good for us. 

The wonderful fruits of the East that we hear so much 
about at home are, to use a slang term, “‘a wash-out.’ There 
are no Eastern fruits comparable to the fruit grown in 
England. The staple fruits of Burma, so far as I have had 
experience, are oranges and bananas. To these at certain 
times of the year, one can add mangoes, custard apples (a 
sickly fruit full of pips), and pines. Pineapples are both 
good and cheap, and in Burma you take half of one on your 
plate and dig out the contents with a spoon. It is much 
the best way of eating a pineapple, though it is not difficult 
to visualise the horrified face of a London hostess were she 
to see one of her guests attempt such an attack on the 
cherished piéce de résistance of her dessert. 

A bungalow, strictly speaking, is a building of one storey 
only. There are, therefore, few, if any, real bungalows in 
Burma. But the houses, especially those built some years 

IZ 


Blake’s House 


ago, are very much of the bungalow type and the term can 
therefore be allowed to pass. At the present day houses 
are being built more of stone and brick and are called, in 
the jargon of the European community, “ pukka ’”’ houses 
in contradistinction to those built of wood. There is 
nothing like a really thick stone wall for keeping out the heat, 
and it is a matter of some surprise to me that the residents 
have for so long been content to live in thinly-built houses of 
wood. These wooden bungalows must be veritable ovens 
during the hot season and cannot, I should imagine, compare 
for comfort with the sensible, heavily-built stone bungalows 
of the European cantonments in India. Dr. Blake’s 
bungalow, which I have been trying to describe, is built of 
teak and roofed with the flat slats of wood known in America 
as “‘shingles.”’ It is shaded by two fine almond trees with 
wide shiny leaves. There are plantains, mangoes, rain-trees, 
gold mohur, and other trees in the compound. Colour is 
provided by masses of purple bougainvillea, by tropical 
plants with great blossoms of red and crimson, and by 
flowering shrubs unknown to colder latitudes. At the back 
of the house are the buildings occupied by the servants and 
their families, some of whom are Burmese and others what 
are here called “ natives,’’ by which natives of India are 
always meant. The kitchen also is a separate building at 
the back, and here most wonderful cookery is done with 
nothing more elaborate than an open wood fire. An Indian 
cook can produce a meal of five or six courses piping hot, 
and serve it, moreover, on hot plates, with the aid of a tiny 


13 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


fire of sticks, a kettle, a frying-pan, and a pot or two. The 
head servant, a sort of major-domo, is called the butler. 
He is not, as might be at first imagined, a suave gentleman 
in evening dress with a marvellous command of the finer 
shades of deferential behaviour and the key of the wine 
cellar, but a Madrasi in a white tunic and with a white 
puggaree wound round his swarthy head, who waits at table 
and overlooks the affairs of the household generally. 

Such, in brief, was the house and domestic establishment 
in which I found myself on my first arrival in Burma. 


14 


CHAPTER II 


Impressions of Rangoon—A Burmese Band—The Street of the Umbrella 
Makers—Tinkly Temple Bells—Elephants—Pongyis—Mulligatawny 
Soup—Conventions of the British Community—A Tropical Rain- 
storm—Cinemas. 


No one who is in the least susceptible 
to impressions can possibly forget his 
first arrival in the East. The people 
are different, the clothes are different, 
the habits, customs and thoughts, the 
trees and foliage, the birds and 
animals, all are different from those to 
which he is accustomed. My first 
arrival in India, which occurred during 
the early part of the war, will always 
stand out as one of the most thrilling 
times of my life. Unfortunately custom stales, and the 
thrill passes, never to return with its original force. All 
the same, during my first day or so in Rangoon I was 
thoroughly absorbed in everything I saw—the movement, 
life and colour, the variety of races, the queer tumble-down 
shops overflowing on to the littered pavement, the coolies 
tugging at freight-carts, the half-naked laughing children, 
the bullocks, the lop-eared goats, the elephants (for I saw 
elephants on my first day), all the riotous and kaleidoscopic 


T5 





A PONGYI 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


confusion of the East epitomised in the sunlit streets and 
byeways of the Burmese capital. 

I was aroused early in the morning by a terrific clamour 
outside in the compound. Cocks were crowing, hens 
clucking and crows chattering, to say nothing of cicadas, 
tree-crickets, frogs and a host of those small creatures that 
possess the enviable power of making a noise out of all 
proportion to their size. It was a deafening chorus, and it 
occurred regularly, as I discovered later, every morning and 
evening. But one gets used to anything, and I was soon 
able to sleep through it. On the first morning, however, I 
had no wish to sleep, but was anxious to be up and out. 
Fortified with tea and toast I started away with Blake. 
His car quickly took us to Kemmendine, a Burmese village 
on the outskirtsof Rangoon. Here I made my first acquaint- 
ance with the streets of thatched bamboo houses, shaded 
with trees that afterwards became familiar to me. The 
houses were mostly raised from the ground on posts. A 
curious superstition attaches to these posts. They are of 
three genders—masculine, feminine, and neuter. Male posts 
are of equal size at both ends; female posts are bigger at 
the foot ; neuter posts are thicker in the middle than at 
the ends. The female posts bring good luck and honour ; 
the male posts are harmless; the neuter posts bring bad 
luck ; while a fourth form of post, thicker at the top, brings 
death and disaster as it is a “ bilu’s,’”’ or ogre’s, post. 

In a house in a side street—which must surely have been 
built upon ogre’s posts—we found the dead body of a man 

16 


A Burmese Band 


laid out in full view, the house, like all the other. houses, 
being quite open in front. A Burmese band was playing 
cheerful music outside. On enquiry we learnt that the 
body was that of the headman of the village, who had just 
been murdered by his brother-in-law. I therefore got a 
rather striking glimpse of Burmese customs, and Burmese 
ways before I had been many hours in the country. 
Murder is, unfortunately, only too common in Burma. 
The Burmese are quick-tempered, and, when in drink, 
quarrelsome. They are also permitted, in certain circum- 
stances, to carry large knives called “‘ dahs.’’ So the means 
are often at hand. Moreover, they do not set the same store 
by human life as we doin the West. Neither, judging from 
what I have seen of them, do they fear death as wedo. Death 
is merely another step towards Nirvana. Therefore their 
funerals are not the lugubrious affairs to which we are 
accustomed in Europe. They employ a band, not to increase 
the gloom and depression, but to dispelit. The function of 
the band is to drive away sorrow, and instead of playing the 
dead marches and requiems which strike a chill into the heart 
of unfortunate mourners in the West, the Burmese rattle 
away at their happiest and most cheerful tunes. Sometimes, 
when a family can afford it, a European band is hired for the 
funeral, and it is then no uncommon thing for the strains 
of a waltz to accompany the corpse to its last resting-place ; 
even ‘‘ The Merry Widow ”’ (a peculiarly unfortunate choice 
where the departed is leaving a wife behind!) has been 
heard at Rangoon funerals. I cannot escape a lurking 


17 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


suspicion that the Burman in this matter shows more sense 
than we do, and though personally I shouldn’t choose the 
“ Merry Widow Waltz ’’ for my own final ceremony, I think 
I should prefer it to the Dead March in “Saul.” 

The band that was playing outside the murdered man’s 
house was composed of a circle of gongs, a circle of drums, 
an oboe, a big drum, cymbals, and a bamboo clapper. The 
sounds produced were perfectly unintelligible to me and 
seemed to consist of about ninety-nine per cent. noise and 
_ one per cent. music. But I shall have more to say on this 
subject in a later chapter. 

The umbrellas of transparent linen that are used by both 
Burmese men and Burmese women are made, amongst other 
places, at Kemmendine. In fact, the street where the 
corpse lay and the band was playing was named, picturesquely 
enough, “‘ The Street of the Umbrella-makers.’’ Womnien 
and girls and a few men were at work in the shops, which are 
also the living-rooms and sleeping-rooms. There is no 
privacy. The interiors of the houses lie open to the gaze 
ofthe passer-by and the domestic life of the people is carried 
on in the full glare of publicity. In one shop you will see, 
for instance, a couple of girls squatting on the floor making 
cheroots, a mother suckling her latest arrival, a woman 
powdering her face or washing a baby, while an ancient 
crone, probably the grandmother, sits stolidly on the bed at 
the back with a huge white cheroot sticking out of the 
corner of her wrinkled mouth. The father may or may not 
be present. If he is he will probably be lounging on the 

18 


The Street of the Umbrella Makers 


floor chewing betel-nut. The rest of the family, naked or 
half-naked urchins of both sexes, with shaven heads and 
queer little top-knots, will be playing in the dust outside. 
All will be laughing, chattering, and happy. 

We left the Street of the Umbrella-makers and went to 
a timber mill near by, and it was here that I saw the 
elephants. They were not, as I may have inadvertently 
suggested, tramping about in the main streets of Rangoon. 
Burma is full of elephants, wild and domesticated, but they 
are not very much in evidence. When I started away some 
days later on a trip up the Irrawaddy, I expected to see 
‘ elephints a-pilin’ teak in the sludgy, squdgy creek ’”’ about 
every few hundred yards or so. During the whole trip of 
900 miles from Rangoon to Bhamo I actually saw two, who 
were both occupied in an unsuccessful attempt to drink the 
Irrawaddy dry instead of being busy at the task sanctified 
and hallowed, as it were, by the world-famous couplet 
of our Imperialist poet. To tell the truth, the poem 
in which these lines occur is slightly misleading in other 
respects also. The old Moulmein pagoda is not “ lookin’ 
Eastward to the sea,’’ nor does the dawn come up “ outer 
China crost the Bay ”’ ; and as for the “ tinkly temple bells,”’ 
by which are meant the tiny bells or flat plates of metal that 
hang from the edge of the iron “hti’’ that crowns the 
pagoda spire, it was about two months before I discovered 
them, and then I had to listen hard before I could hear 
them tinkle. I am assured, however, by others, that in 
windy weather they are quite audible. 


1g 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


The elephants in the timber mill were hauling logs and 
lifting them on to the saw carriers. They used trunks, 
tusks and feet. Some of the logs had a chain attached, and 
in this case the great beast would put his trunk through the 
loop of the chain, place the end of his trunk in his mouth, 
and then pull. When pushing a log with a forefoot, the 
elephant puts his trunk against the log and his foot against 
the trunk. The pressure on the trunk between foot and 
log must be enormous. The almost human intelligence 
displayed is remarkable, and it is not difficult to believe that 
the elephants have more sense, as some people say, than the 
Indian coolies or “‘ mahouts’’’ who are in charge of them. I 
was so fascinated in watching that I was quite sorry to come 
away. The elephant does not usually breed in captivity, 
and most of the domestic elephants are captured elephants 
brought in from the jungle and trained. A good trained 
elephant is worth about £500. It is a much more sensitive 
beast than its size would lead one to believe. It feels the 
heat, and is not, therefore, worked by its owners after the 
sun is high. And, what is stranger still, it suffers acute 
distress from the bite of the mosquito. 

As we drove home after leaving the timber yard, I 
noticed a great many yellow-robed Buddhist priests carrying 
shiny black bowls. They were pongyis returning to their 
“kyaungs’”’ with the daily offerings of food. The new 
arrival cannot help being struck by the number of these 
monks in yellow; quite a large proportion of the male 
population seem to belong to the priesthood ; one sees them 

20 


Pongyis 


everywhere, either with their begging-bowls, or striding 
along with a palm-leaf fan or a big red umbrella, and often 
attended by a small boy carrying their books and belongings. 
“ Pongyi’’ is a generic term used for convenience, but 
strictly speaking a “‘ pongyi”’ (literally “ great glory ”’) is 
one who has lived the religious life for not less than ten years ; 
the others are “ pyit-shins ’’ with a lesser term of service, 
or “‘ shins ”—novices—and those who are serving the short 
period which every male Buddhist is expected, at some 
time or other, to devote to the monastic life. 

The food collected every morning in the bowls is by no 
means always consumed by the priests. In some cases it is, 
but in others it is turned out at the roadside to be eaten by 
the pariah dogs that infest the whole country. The daily 
collection thus has for its object not so much the provision 
of sustenance for the monks as the provision of an opportunity 
for the lay portion of the community to perform a daily act 
of charity. Europeans are apt to sneer at this custom on 
the ground that it is inspired merely by a selfish desire to 
“acquire merit’’; but is it not to some extent analogous 
to the law of the British Boy Scout, which insists on the 
daily performance of at least one kind action? And is it 
not probable that the habit of giving thus inculcated, whether 
the motive is intrinsically a selfish one or not, must have an 
influence for good on the character of those who regularly 
adhere to it ? | 

When we arrived home to breakfast I met with another 
curious custom. This was an English custom, or rather a 

gr 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


custom of the English in Burma. We began our meal with 
mulligatawny soup. 

“It’s Sunday,” said Jones. 

The remark seemed irrelevant and at the time I failed to 
connect it with the soup. Later on I found that Sunday 
breakfast in Burma always begins with mulligatawny soup. 
Mulligatawny soup is sacred to the Sabbath, and to the 
Sabbath breakfast in particular. No one would dream of 
having it at any other time; in fact, to do so would 
disintegrate the calendar, and whenever you enter the 
breakfastroom of a European house in Burma, and the 
fragrant odour of mulligatawny assails your nostrils, youcan 
be quite sure, whether the church bells are ringing or not, 
that it is Sunday. 

Breakfast is a substantial meal. It needs to be as it has 
to carry you on until afternoon tea at four o’clock. There 
isnolunch. But the man who “ does like an egg to his tea ”’ 
is happy in Burma, for, as often as not, boiled eggs are then 
available. After tea it is the custom to play tennis for an 
hour and to repair to the club until eight or half-past. 
Then comes dinner, and almost as soon as it is over the 
household retires to bed. 

I soon got accustomed to the absence of lunch, but I 
never took kindly to the dinner hour, and I have suffered 
agonies in struggling to keep awake and to take an intelligent 
interest in the conversation when exceedingly sleepy after a 
big late meal provided by hospitable fellow-countrymen in 
Burma. One would have thought that people who rise with 

22 


Conventions of the British Community 


the lark would have preferred to dine earlier, especially as it 
gets dark soon after six o’clock. But, no! They get into 
dress clothes and play bridge on empty stomachs until nine 
p.m. and then dine and go to bed on full ones. Is there 
anyone in the world such a slave to the customs and habits 
of his class as the Englishman ? 

In Rangoon white people seldom, almost never, use the 
trams. Here is another convention. You may use the 
trams in Mandalay, as I found when I went there later on, 
but not in Rangoon. Neither do the white people use 
rickshaws ; they either take taxis, which are very expensive, 
or shut themselves up in a thing like a dog-kennel on wheels 
called a “ tikka-gharry.’’ When I asked the reason I was 
told that the rickshaws were dirty. Asa matter of fact they 
are no dirtier than the gharries, and they are comfortable 
and airy, whicha gharryisnot. Also they are half the price. 
In Shanghai and Singapore and other cities in the East 
Europeans always travel by rickshaw, but in Rangoon it 
simply ‘isn’t done,’’ and when a thing “isn’t done,” few 
Englishmen are brave enough to do it. No doubt a great 
many of the conventions of India and Burma, which now 
strike the observer as snobbish and unnecessary, had their 
origin in the early days of conquest, when it was a point of 
honour to keep the reputation of the white man at as high 
alevelas possible. The native had to be made to understand 
that his conquerors were a superior people. Most of the 
official class hold the same opinion to-day (I don’t say that 
they are wrong), and it is easy to realise the consternation 


23 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


in official circles caused by an advertisement which recently 
appeared in a Rangoon paper from the “‘ wife of a gazetted 
officer,’ offering to take charge of children on the voyage to 
England in return for her passage, and frankly giving strait- 
ness of means as the reason. I was so filled with admiration 
for this reckless advertiser that I was stimulated to emulation 
by driving in a rickshaw through the centre of Rangoon in 
full view of everybody ! 

After breakfast, Jones put his car at my disposal and I 
explored the neighbourhood. ‘There were pictures at every 
turn, and figure-studies innumerable. Burmese in brightly 
coloured lungyis and headgear; Indians lithe, long-haired 
and gay with silver ornaments; small boys flying kites ; 
priests in their yellow robes ; groups of half-naked Madrasis 
washing at the fountains; women carrying pots on their 
heads with the utmost grace and poise of carriage ; bullock- 
carts moving along in their own leisurely fashion ; Chinamen 
in wide conical hats with baskets slung from a bamboo pole ; 
laughing naked babies rolling happily about in the dust; 
and over everything the sun blazing down from the blue 
sky with never a hint of anything but the hottest and finest 
weather. But presently clouds began to gather. Then 
raindrops fell. And in a few minutes the streets were rivers. 
The rain was so thick that you could only see a yard or two 
ahead and to drive through the downpour was an impossi- 
bility. The chauffeur hurried to get up the hood of the 
car, but even when it was fixed the driving torrent penetrated 
every crevice and wetted me to the skin. It was a true 


24 


A Tropical Rainstorm 


tropical rain-storm, the precursor of the five wet days that 
I am told commonly occur in Rangoon early in November 
and are the last of the “ rains.”’ 

Later in the evening, when the storm was over, I found 
myself on the riverside. It was just aftersunset. Both sky 





FETCHING WATER 


and water were red as blood, and native craft, high in bow 
and stern, and of most exceedingly graceful lines, stood 
sharply out from the red background. A good subject for 
a simple coloured woodcut. The scene in the dusk as we 
returned home was delightful. All along the roadside were 
little fires, and stalls lit by lamps with naked flames. Figures 
moved about in the flickering light, and smooth brown limbs 


29 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


caught the gleam as the men busied themselves with cooking 
operations over the fires. 

Before dinner that evening, having bathed and changed, 
we sat on Blake’s lawn in the soft tropical darkness watching 
the fire-flies and listening to the Liebestod from “‘ Tristan ”’ on 
the gramophone. It was very pleasant after the heat of the 
day. A gentle breeze moved in the trees overhead, and the 
tinkle of ice in glasses, as the butler prepared long drinks, 
fell refreshingly on the ear. And just then I became 
conscious of an irritation, now on the ankles, then on the 
face, and next on the hands and wrists. The mosquitoes 
had found me out. The other members of the party, 
hardened by years in Burma, openly rejoiced in my affliction. 
As long as a newcomer was in their midst they knew that no 
mosquito would concern himself with them. To console me 
they told me the story of a Scotch engineer who said of 
mosquitoes: ‘‘ Nights I’m too drunk to notice ‘em, 
and by morning the mosquitoes are too drunk to bite.” 
But it was small consolation, and I was soon driven indoors 
to the ammonia bottle. 

After dinner we paid a visit to one of the cinemas with 
which Rangoon is plentifully provided. The story wasabout 
a black man and a white woman, and was totally unfitted for 
exhibition before a Burmese audience. Many of the 
Europeans here regret the introduction of the cinema, and one 
must agree with them that the presentation of sordid stories 
of crime and intrigue which portray the “‘ sahib ”’ at his very 
worst, are not calculated to increase the respect in which he 

26 








Cinemas 


has been hitherto held, or to maintain his prestige in a 
country in which revolutionary ideas are already spreading 
far too quickly. The cinema censorship both in India and 
Burma should be very much stricter. The cinema, like the 
Press, is an enormous power for either evil or good, and it is 
a thousand pities that both, as in almost every case they do, 
should place dividends before duty. It is only another 
manifestation of the worst side of that commercial spirit 
which if not checked will sooner or later infallibly bring us 
to ruin. 

The visit to the cinema concluded my first day in Burma, 
a long day from 6 a.m. till midnight, and almost every 
minute of it filled with novelty and interest. There was only 
one fly in the ointment—and that was a mosquito ! 


27 


OETA EE gebel 


European Dress—The Municipal Doctor Sahib—Shopping in Rangoon— 
A Burmese Family—Burmese Dress—A Misunderstanding—Dengue 
Fever. 


HE following morning I was astonished to encounter 
Jones arrayed in a black swallowtail coat, striped 
cloth trousers, high stick-up starched collar, and spats. 

“Good heavens,” I cried. ‘‘ What’sup? A wedding? ”’ 

Jones groaned. ‘“‘ No,” he said. ‘I’ve got to attend a 
council meeting, and this is de rigeur. Everybody has to 
wear it.” 

For a moment I stood aghast at such heroic devotion to 
appearance. A thick cloth morning-coat, a stick-up collar, 
and spats in a tropical climate like the climate of Rangoon ! 
Then I drew myself up to my full height and puffed out my 
chest, proud to think that J, even I, in a crumpled shirt and 
an old pair of khaki trousers, was also a Briton, one 
of that great race on whose Empire the sun never sets, and 
whose sons are ready to suffer to the last drop of their 
blood (or sweat) in order to do what custom ordains to be 
THE RicHT THING. 

Blake appeared soon after, dressed in shirt and shorts—a 
great contrast to the gorgeous victim of officialdom, Jones,— 
and took me off to show me his waste-dumps and slaughter- 

28 


The Municipal Doctor Sahib 


houses. He is veterinary officer to the municipality and 
proved to me that there is romance attached even to the 
killing of animals for the food of a community and to the 
collection and disposal of the community’s refuse. Some years 
ago the rapid growth of the city brought the municipality 
face to face with a serious difficulty. The refuse was 
accumulating so fast that it was becoming a menace to the 
public health. Experts who were called in advised the 
erection of large incinerators in which the waste products of 
the city, now amounting to about 1,000 tons per day, could 
be burnt. It was a big matter and likely to involve a total 
outlay of not far short of £1,000,0o00. The-city fathers were 
alarmed and consulted Blake, who had an alternative scheme, 
namely to spread the refuse over a large area of unused 
swampy land on the outskirts of Rangoon and convert the 
swamp into fields. The municipality, faced with a possible 
outlay of a million pounds, were only too glad to let him 
put his scheme to the trial. He did so, and it has turned out 
a triumphant success. The dumping-grounds, hundreds of 
acres in extent, are now well drained, and intersected by good 
roads shaded by avenues of rain-trees. No one would 
suspect how they were made. The refuse is sorted over by 
coolies, and such things as old iron, old tins, and old bottles 
are taken out and used, the tins for drains, the bottles to be 
sold for the manufacture of sulphuric acid. Stones and 
bricks go tomaking the roads. The residue is left to rot, and 
in a comparatively short time becomes good earth. For 
this Blake finds a ready market, as it is exceedingly valuable 


29 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


as garden soil. The work is thus largely self-supporting, and 
instead of an incinerator scheme, costly to instal and costly 
to run, the municipality of Rangoon is able to dispose of its 
huge accumulations of refuse at an almost nominal rate. 
Blake’s methods are often exceedingly ingenious. For 
example, each coolie has to bring every night and morning 
half a brick as his “‘tally.’’ Half-bricks are plentiful enough 
amongst the daily refuse. - There are 3,000 coolies. Blake, 
therefore, by this simple means and at no cost whatever, 
collects into one place 6,000 half-bricks per day. 

The refuse is spread about seven feet in depth, and gas 
that is generated by decomposition is carried off by pipes 
and burnt. 

It will be easily understood that the daily collection of 
1,000 tons of rubbish involves the use of a large number of 
carts. These carts are made on Blake’s premises, and the 
spacious stables which house the bullocks that draw them 
are also under Blake’s supervision. The purchase of the 
bullocks is another part of Blake’s work, and, as he is the 
best judge of a bullock in Burma, there is no other man in the 
country who could do it as well or as economically. The 
bullock-stables are a revelation. Instead of the usual place 
smelling of manure and swarming with flies, you find a clean, 
sweet compound with rows of open buildings and stalls in 
which there is hardly a fly or a speck of dirt to be seen. 
Every bullock after work is washed in a large tank of water, 
and then taken to a second tank which contains a solution 
of disinfectant, and thoroughly swilled with it all over. In 


30 


The Municipal Doctor Sahib 


the second tank stands a special coolie whose duty it is to 
keep a vigilant eye on each bullock and rush with a bucket 
to catch any impending droppings. The disinfectant tank 
is thus kept quite clean and uncontaminated. The bulk of 
the food for the bullocks comes off the refuse dumps, which 
give several crops of good grass every year, and again the 
municipality is saved a lot of expense. 

As to the slaughter-houses, which are also in the charge 
of this exceedingly hard-worked man, it may be doubted if 
there are any better-kept slaughter-houses in the world. 
Even in cold climates such places could hardly be cleaner, 
or more free from fliesand smells. There are slaughter-houses 
for cattle, for sheep and goats, and for pigs, and all are so 
spotless that it is hardly an exaggeration to say that you 
could eat your dinner off the floor of anyone ofthem. Any 
pig, or ox, or sheep, or goat, might feel proud to beslaughtered 
in one! 

In Blake the Rangoon municipality has an invaluable 
servant. Whether they appreciate it is doubtful. If they 
do not, they will when his time is up and he finally returns 
to England. Heis called by those who know him and know 
what he has done, ‘“‘ The man who made Rangoon,” and there 
are probably few people in Burma to-day who have better 
justified existence by useful work than “‘ the moonicipal 
dahkter sahib,”’ Arthur Blake. 

The most picturesque side of Blake’s work from the point 
of view of an artist is provided by the Indian coolie women. 
These women work at the large sieves through which all the 


31 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


refuse is passed, and it is a fine sight to see a long string 
of them swinging past with baskets on their heads, flinging 
the contents against the upright sieve, and returning to the 
refuse pile for more. Their bracelets, ankle-rings and 
armlets, flash and jingle as they move along with a swing 
of the hips, their bodies upright, their draperies of red, brown 
and orange clinging around them in graceful folds. Most 
of the women are magnificently built, and I longed for an 
opportunity to draw one from the nude. But nude models, 
whether Indian or Burmese, are not to be hadin thiscountry, 
where, as throughout the East, the exposure of the body 
is regarded as insulting to the onlooker. I first met with 
this curious idea when I wasa prisonerin Turkey. A British 
Tommy had annoyed one of our Turkish guards. The 
incensed Turk thereupon proceeded to unfasten certain of 
his garments. The intended insult, however, no doubt to 
his intense astonishment and chagrin, fell quite flat, and 
merely provoked the Tommy to unrestrained mirth. In 
Burma, a gesture as though about to lift the lungyi, or skirt, 
is sufficient, and is a gesture commonly made by an angry 
Burmese woman. I have only heard of one British artist 
visiting the country who succeeded in securing a model—a 
girl of rather doubtful reputation ; but the experiment failed, 
for when the lady found she was expected to strip, she 
blushed a fiery red and fled incontinently. So the dislike of 
appearing in what Trilby called “‘ the altogether ”’ is evidently 
very deeply rooted, and artists in Burma must therefore 
study the figure through the clothes as best they can. 


32 


Shopping in Rangoon 


Rangoon is not a good place for shopping. Everything is 
very expensive and, as far as my experience goes, the exact 
thing you want is seldom obtainable. I wanted a sketch- 
book, an article for which one would have imagined there 
would always be a certain demand from the European 
community. But though I searched Rangoon through I 
couldn’t get one. I had eventually to choose between 
a child’s drawing-book with rough paper, and an ordinary 
letter-pad. When it came to finding some wood-cutting 
tools (I had unfortunately lost my own during the journey 
out), the situation was even worse. A prolonged search 
brought mein the end toashop where some Burmese wood- 
carvers were at work. I was at some difficulty to explain my 
wants, but at last a Burman who understood English came 
to the rescue. He said I should be able to buy the tools 
in the native bazaar, and as I didn’t know my way 
there, he kindly took me. It was some little distance, 
so, thinking that he would expect something in the 
nature of ‘“‘ backshish,”’ I offered him a rupee. Rather to 
my surprise he refused it. 

‘“‘ All men are brothers,” he said. ‘“‘ It is my duty to 
help my brother.”’ 

But the bazaar proved as useless for my purpose as the 
European shops had done. Wood-cutting tools there were 
none, though every other imaginable thing from a pencil to 
a perambulator seemed to be onsale. The noise and chatter, 
the smells, the colour, the vast variety of goods, and the 
innumerable types of people and races that thronged the 


Si) 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


dusty corridors, made it most bewildering. I left it half 
stunned, and minus the tools I wanted. 

That afternoon we paid a visit to some Burmese friends 
of Blake’s. The ladies were all smoking great white 
cheroots, and gave me some of the biggest assamples. When 
I got home later, I measured them, and found that they were 
twelve inches long and nearly an inch and a quarter thick. 
No wonder that the Burmese women have rather pursy lips. 
The habit of smoking is universal throughout Burma, and 
quite small children smoke; sometimes in the bazaars I 
have even seen a baby given its mother’s cheroot while the 
mother was busy attending to a customer. But it is only 
fair to say that the particular cheroots which are smoked by 
women contain very little tobacco. 

The Burmese husband and householder must be a long- 
suffering person, for quite a number of his wife’s relatives 
find shelter beneath his roof. This household was no 
exception to the rule. I could not discover the exact 
relationships of everybody, but there appeared to be a 
mother-in-law and several sisters-in-law, besides a widowed 
sister of the husband’s, and a lot of children, all living 
together in the higgledy-piggledy, untidy way that is 
characteristic of the Burman. The furniture was mostly 
tawdry modern stuff, but included one or two good pieces 
as well as some fair specimens of Burmese carved work. 
Somehow or other the subject of hair came up during our 
conversation, and one of the ladies unfastened her own 
glossy black coil in order to show me that it reached to the 


34 


Burmese Dress 


ground. It was all her own, too, though most Burmese 
girls do not scruple to make extraneous additions, whichis a 
simpler matter in the East than it is in the West owing to the 
colour. I have never seen or heard of a fair-haired Burman. 
Coco-nut oil, which is exceedingly good for the hair, is freely 
used both by men and women. The men, except those 
who have it cropped in the Western style, tie their hair 
in a knot slightly to one side of the back of the head and 
cover it with a ‘‘ gaung-baung,” or scarf, of brightly coloured 
silk. The women usually arrange it in a smooth coil, and 
put a few flowers at the side. They never wear any head 
covering, and in a mixed gathering of Burmese and European 
ladies, it is the latter, strange to say, whosuffer by comparison. 
In fact, in Burma even the latest millinery creation from the 
Rue de la Paix somehow looks a monstrosity, and I no 
longer share the popular notion that a woman always looks 
her best ina hat. The whole kit of the high-class Burmese 
lady is delightful, and it is simplicity itself; just a close- 
fitting bodice of white with a short jacket of fine white linen 
over it, and a “ lungyi,” or skirt, of some bright-coloured 
silk reaching to the feet and fastened merely by being 
tucked in at the waist, just as one tucks in a bath 
towel. Embroidered sandals on the bare feet complete 
the costume, though a fine scarf of gauze silk is some- 
times added. In this simple attire the Burmese lady 
can challenge comparison with any European woman, 
however well turned out, and she has the additional 
advantage of being able to wear any amount of jewellery 


ae, 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


without appearing vulgar or overdressed. One can't 
explain why, but it is so. 

The man’s costume is practically the same as the woman’s 
with the exception of the “ gaung-baung,”’ or head scart ; 
but he fastens his “‘ lungyi’’ with a bunch in front instead 
of smoothly at the side as is the woman’s way. Also on 
special occasions he wears, instead of a “ lungyi,’’ a ‘‘ pasoh,” 
which is a similar garment, but very much ampler. 

The favourite and predominant colour for “‘ lungyis ”’ 
is rose pink ; but neither men nor women hesitate to appear 
in apple green, peacock blue, vivid orange or flame, purple 
or any other colour that strikes their fancy. The colours 
seldom clash, and I am inclined to think that the Burmese 
must have a natural instinct for colour, though some people 
put it down to the light. Many of the lungyis are in check 
patterns, and it is often possible to tell by the pattern of 
his lungyi from what district a man hails. Blue is not often 
met with except further north, where it is worn by Shans, 
Shan Tayoks, Lisaws, Kachins and other tribesfolk; but 
these are not true Burmese, and rose pink remains the 
distinctive sartorial colour of Burma. 

The Burmese have no form of salutation, no ‘‘ good-bye,” 
no “ good-day,”’ “‘ good-morning ”’ or ‘‘ good-night.”” They 
have no actual word for “no,’’ and no word for ‘“‘ yes,” 
though I presume, as Mark Twain said of Latin, they have 
some such formula as “‘ don’t mind ifI do!’ They do not 
ordinarily shake hands, but the more advanced will some- 
times do so with a European. The ladies I have been 

36 


¢ 


¢ 


A Misunderstanding 


speaking of, whose house we visited, did shake hands, but 
with an air of doing something rather naughty, for in Burma 
it is considered quite wrong for a man to touch a woman. 
Even during courtship he is constrained to sit respectfully 
at a decent distance, though there may be, one imagines, 
occasions when ardent spirits set this convention at defiance. 

One of my friends in Burma was once visited by his 
father, a professor at one of the English Universities, and a 
man advanced in age and of unimpeachable integrity. The 
father wanted to buy some silk and was taken down to the 
bazaar by the son, where, after some hard bargaining, a 
purchase was made from a woman in charge of one of the 
silk stalls. The old man, who was on his first visit to the 
East, apparently felt some scruples over the way in which 
the price had been beaten down, and just before leaving 
produced an English sovereign and offered it to the woman 
by way of a bonus. Misunderstanding her refusal to accept 
it, he pressed it into her hand, at the same time patting her 
gently on the shoulder as much as to say “ That’s all right ! 
Keep it, and welcome!” And immediately the fat was in 
the fire. With eyes blazing, the woman jumped to her feet, 
flung the sovereign to the ground, and began to pour fortha 
perfect torrent of vituperation and abuse. All the women 
within earshot crowded round and joined in, and the poor old 
professor, puzzled, hurt and utterly bewildered by the tumult, 
had to be hurried away to a place of safety. 

I was told of another curious case which also illustrates 
this idiosyncrasy. I am not quite sure of details, but in 


37 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


substance it was this: A certain doctor, to his intense 
indignation, was taken into court on the charge of insulting one 
of his patients—a Burmese woman. The accusation was that 
he had touched her unnecessarily. It was a trivial charge 
and utterly unfounded, but it entailed no end of trouble and 
expense and several actions in the courts before the case was 
quashed. The District Commissioner, however, in spite of 
the final verdict, demanded: the doctor’s removal to another 
station. The doctor refused to leave and laid the matter before 
the Lieutenant-Governor, who expressed annoyance at the 
whole affair, ordered the doctor to remain where he was, and 
reprimanded the D.C. for ever allowing the case to go into 
Court. Thus, though there is reason to suspect that the 
case was brought at the instigation of someone who had a 
grudge against the doctor, we here have the touching of a 
woman actually made the grounds for an action at law. 

A new kind of fever has made its appearance in Burma. 
The doctors, who admit that they do not at present know 
what it is or what causes it, call it “‘dengue’”’ fever. In 
Rangoon it has been so frequent as almost to amount to an 
epidemic, especially among new arrivals from Europe. I 
can speak of it with feeling and from bitter experience, for 
I went down with it before I had been four days in Rangoon. 
It had been very wet and the whole place was saturated with 
moisture. The walls were running with the damp, one’s 
clothes in the morning were clammy as sponges and one’s 
boots and shoes acquired in a single night a perfect forest 
of mildew. I was not, therefore, altogether surprised when 


38 


Dengue Fever 


I was seized with rheumatic pains and obliged to go to bed. 
I felt so ill that I feared rheumatic fever, and was only half 
consoled when my hosts assured me that I should be all 
right in three days, and that there was nothing to be 
alarmed about. It was easy for them to talk; they hadn’t 
gotit. Ihad! 

However, they proved to be right, though only inasense. 
For three nights and days I lay on my bed tossing from side 
to side, unable to sleep, unable to eat, unable to control my 
nightmare thoughts, and suffering indescribable tortures 
from a sense of smell sharpened about a hundredfold above 
normal. This symptom was the strangest and most 
unpleasant of all. The one blanket on the bed possessed 
for the time the combined smell of all the factories in Witney, 
an indescribable odour of damp mustiness emanated from the 
pillow, vibrations of every conceivable wave length smote 
my olfactory nerves from the cookhouse in the compound, 
the magnified scent of turpentine from the next room where 
a boy was polishing the furniture nearly made me sick, 
and even such a harmless and apparently scentless thing as 
a piece of dry toast which stood untouched on a table at my 
bedside, threw off a whiff so nasty that I had to call for help 
and have it taken away. Perhaps we have reason to be 
thankful that the human nose is ordinarily but an imperfect 
instrument. 

There are two well-known stages of sea-sickness, one 
when the victim is afraid he is going to die, and the next 
when he fears he isn’t. ‘‘ Dengue”’ fever quickly brought 


39 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


me to the latter stage, and kept me there for two days. On 
the third day I revived sufficiently to eat an orange and to 
take a tentative walk, with very tottery steps, across my 
bedroom. Soon after this the fever left me, but it was ten 
days or a fortnight more before I altogether recovered my 
strength. 

Such is ‘‘ dengue ”’ fever as I experienced it. There are 
few complaints that contrive to compress more pain, misery 
and discomfort, both physical and mental, into such a short 
space of time. Its worst feature, moreover, is its recurrence, 
so that all who have once had it will join with me in hoping 
that the medical faculty will soon find a remedy for it, or 
better still, a preventive. 


40 








CHAPTER IV 


Up the Irrawaddy—The Delta Country—Bathing Girls—At Myanoung— 
Ngapi—Irrawaddy Yarns—Customs at Child-birth. 


N November 28th I found myself, with typewriter, 
camera, drawing materials, kit, a supply of cheroots, 

and an Indian “ boy,” on board the Irrawaddy Flotilla 
Company’s steamer “‘ Nepaul.”’ A ticket, specially issued 
by the courtesy of the Company, permitted me to travel 
by any of the Company’s boats from Rangoon to Bhamo, 
and back to Mandalay, to break the journey anywhere, 
and to stop off as long as I liked. This ticket was a 
great convenience and saved me much trouble and expense. 
The Irrawaddy and its tributaries are the highways of 
Burma, for the country is at present very inadequately 
provided with roads and railways, and even to-day the 
major portion is only served by rough jungle paths and 
bullock tracks. The Irrawaddy, navigable by steamers for 
900 miles of its length, bisects Burma from North to South. 
Its source, believed to be in the mountains of Tibet, is 
unknown. In the rainy season its volume is enormous, 
five thousand million tons of water being said to pass a given 
spot in twenty-four hours—more water than passes under 
London Bridge in twelve months. It is one of the biggest 
rivers in the world—even the Mississippi has to yield to it in 


43 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


size—and it dyes the Indian Ocean, for a hundred miles out 
from Rangoon, a curious brick red with the mud and silt 
washed down by its mighty flood. 

There were no other saloon passengers on the “‘ Nepaul”’ 
and I had the saloon to myself. Tourists have been scarce 
in Burma since the war, and residents going north usually 
travel by train to Prome and pick up the river steamer there. 
The boat was a big paddle steamer—so big that it was 
difficult to believe she drew only four and a half feet of water. 
Her width, already considerable, was nearly doubled by a 
barge, or float, attached to the starboard side, and her 
captain, who had been running boats on the Irrawaddy for 
forty years and might have been expected by the uninitiated 
to know his way blindfold, had in consequence more than 
one anxious moment when dodging a sandbank or taking 
an awkward corner. The channel is constantly shifting and, 
although there are always twelve launches at work on the 
river taking soundings and readjusting the line of buoys, 
it is seldom safe to steam ahead without a “secunnie’”’ on 
either side taking soundings with a pole. Their monotonous 
chant goes on interminably : 


Do barm 

Do barm 

Beelays kum do barm 
Sari ek barm. 


and always with a melancholy drop of a tone or a semitone 
on the last word. 


44 


Up the Irrawaddy 


The buoys that mark thechannel are big lengths of bamboo 
weighted at the bottom so that they float upright except 
for the tilt given to them by the current. They are red on 
one side of the channel and white and blue on the other, and 
the latter are further distinguished by a small disc of metal 
hung from the top by a string; this shines as it catches 
the sun and so makes it easier to pick up the buoy from a 
distance. 

As I had only just got over “ dengue,’’ I was not sorry 
to find the saloon untenanted. I did not pine for company, 
but was quite content to lie at full length in a lounge chair 
and watch the green banks slip silently by.. It was a relief, 
too, to escape from the mosquitoes that had worried me so 
much in Rangoon. Here on the river the breeze blew most 
of them away, for it was the North-East monsoon and we 
had the wind against us. There were still enough of them, 
however, to make a mosquito curtain advisable at night. 

The Delta country, through which we were passing, is 
flat, and to some people uninteresting. It has, nevertheless, 
a character and interest of its own. Anyone who cared 
to make a rough picture of it could do so somewhat on the 
following lines: Paint a wide expanse of blue sky lightening 
at the horizon to white, below this a narrow streak of blue 
for the distance, then a wider streak of extremely vivid green 
for the paddy (rice) fields, then a line of ruddy brown for the 
river bank, with a few stunted bushes on top, and finally a 
mixture of pink and brick red for the water of the Irrawaddy ; 
add one or two palm trees, put in a boat with a wide bellying 


45 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


white sail as a finishing touch, and you will have a very fair 
representation of the Delta country as seen from the deck 
of a steamer at mid-day. The essential and striking note is 
the intense green of the paddy, or was at the time of which 
I am speaking. Later on, with the approach of harvest, 
the green fades and gives place to yellow and brown. 


a ee ee 


\ \ tte MW vee Utatitignaee 


CETL a7 





MORNING ON THE IRRAWADDY 


I found plenty to look at as we steamed along between 
the red banks; now a passing native boat, now a riverside 
village, now men fishing from a canoe, now a group of girls 
bathing at the water’s edge, or a party of children romping 
in the sand, here a cluster of pagodas, there a grove of toddy 
palms, or, maybe, a huge banyan tree with gnarled and fluted 
trunk—an endless panorama of pictures set like jewels in 
the wide expanse of river and sky. 

The bathing girls are quite a feature of Burma. It is 


46 


Bathing Girls 


very pretty to see them go into the water with lungyis 
fastened above the breasts and under the armpit. Their 
movements and attitudes are full of lithe grace, and the 
Tungyi, so worn, is a much more becoming garment for the 
purpose than the average British bathing dress. It does 
away with the necessity for shelter, and in Burma bathing 





A SAMPAN 


operations can thus be conducted in public with the utmost 
propriety. The girl has simply to lift her lungyi and fasten 
it across her breast, beneath her short white jacket. She 
then takes off the jacket and is ready for the water. On 
coming out she merely slips a dry lungyi over the wet one, 
which she then lets fall to the ground, steps out of, wrings 


47 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


out, and sets in the sun to dry. No Burman ever uses a 
towel, except sometimes in the cold weather, and then not 
to dry himself with, but as a head covering. 

When there is no river available, both men and women 
wash at the public fountains in the streets, or douse them- 
selves with water taken from a Pegu jar standing outside the 
house. The same procedure with the lungyi is adhered to 
as when bathing in the river. No one, as far as I am aware, 
ever washes indoors. 

Whether it is due to this habit of frequent bathing, or to 
the use of “ thanaka "’ powder, or to some other cause, I do 
not know; but it is certainly a fact that Burmese girls have 
very beautiful complexions, and a skin smooth and soft asa 
baby’s. 


In my diary under the date November 3oth, I find the 
following : 


“We have had two very pleasant days. Still quite cool 
with a N.E. breeze meeting the boat, which makes it possible 
to sit out on the forward deck without any fear of being 
bothered by mosquitoes. After dark we use a search-light 
ahead. The beam swinging from side to side of the river, 
with millions of insects in it all glittering like fire-flies is 
very pretty to watch. Now and then it picks up a passing 
native boat or a string of timber rafts, each with a little 
thatched hut in the middle. When we stop at a riverside 
village half a dozen lascars, Chittagonians, plunge overboard 


48 


a 


DDO, 
) 


OVI %0¢ : 


Q%gdo a0: 





yH9 


I 0906 da 2 


A RIVERSIDE VILLAGE 


nat 


RY Mt 


nyinteo kenalog 


pune LS 





At Myanoung 


and swim ashore with the cable, and as soon as we are 
alongside, Burmese women come aboard with baskets on their 
heads containing fruit, sweetmeats, cheroots, and all sorts 





AT THE RIVERSIDE 


of things forsale. Sunset, when nature is most lavish of her 
colours, is a wonderful time. The sunset of the night before 
last was the most stupendous I have ever seen. To-night it 


SI 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


was less lurid, but still marvellously beautiful. I was 
standing on a high bund above the river, having gone ashore 
at a place called Myanoung. The sky was rose pink and © 
opal, dimming to a soft grey at the horizon. The further 
bank of the river was sand topped with elephant grass. 
The water glowed with reflected light. Pulled up on the 
beach at my feet were some big paddy boats with enormous 
high carved sterns. On either side stretched the bund 
which protects the village in flood time, with pagoda spires 
showing among the palms and Burmese going to and fro 
in their brightly coloured garments. Girls were bathing 
in the river, a fisherman in a canoe was working a seine net, 
whose line of corks bobbed about in the shimmering water, 
and close by,a party of children were playing some game with 
great noise and laughter. Previously I had been into the 
village and made some sketches, surrounded, as usual, by a 
solid crowd of interested spectators. The streets were 
extremely picturesque. Graceful palms, with every tall trunk 
curving differently, lined them on either side. The shops, 
built of bamboo framework and thatched with palm leaves, 
were open in front, giving a clear view of the living 
room at the back and the domestic concerns being 
carried on there. Little roughly-thatched stalls, whose 
owners were doing a good trade in cheroots, and betel-nuts 
for chewing, stood at the street corners. Eating-houses, 
at which I confess I should not feel much tempted to eat, 
appeared to be doing good business too. And on the 
green in front of the big pagoda a lot of young Burmese 


52 


Negapi 


were playing—of all things—hockey, with the regulation 
hockey sticks and ball! ”’ 

That evening I made my first acquaintance with the 
Burmese national odour—and a very nasty one at that! 
It came from some pots of “ ngapi”’ that had been recently 
taken on board. According to information furnished by the 
skipper, ngapi is made of fish that has been buried in the 
ground for some time. But Sir George Scott, whois probably 
a safer guide, gives the following account of the preparation 
of this evil-smelling comestible. (‘‘ The Burman: His Life 
and Notions ’”’ page 283.) 

‘It is made almost exclusively from shrimps and the 
smaller kinds of fish. These are spread out as they are 
caught, without the addition of salt or any cleaning whatever, 
on matsin the sun. There they remain for two, or perhaps 
three days—by which time their condition is better imagined 
than closely investigated. They are then thrown into a huge 
wooden mortar and pounded together, with a liberal addition 
of salt. It does not take any very heavy work or length 
of time to reduce them to a state of mash, in which one 
fish is not to be distinguished from another. The whole is 
then heaped up in a great mound under a shed near the house, 
and several hollow bamboos, with little holes here and there 
in their sides, are thrust into it. Out of these a liquor, 
called nganpya ye, runs, and is carefully collected in jars 
set there for the purpose. This as well as some other fishy 
oils are greatly esteemed for culinary purposes, and fetch 
a. good price. When these juices cease to run freely, the 


53 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


fish-paste is ready for sale, and is dug and shovelled out in 
an unceremonious way, contrasting very markedly with the 
loving care taken of the ‘ whole fish ngapi.’ In the country 
boats it is usually carried in bulk, piled up as corn, or salt, 
or commodities of a like nature might be loaded; and 
therefore a boat which has once been used for this purpose is 
easily known again. In English steamers it is, of course, 
packed in jars, but the odours are none the less fragrant on 
that account. This is the true and only method of 
preparation, and the marvellous tales related by some 
foreigners of the burial of the fish in the earth for periods 
varying from a week to a year (!) are due either to a guileless 
nature or a too powerful imagination.”’ 

In spite of its offensive smell, no meal in a Burmese 
household is complete without ngapi, and though we hold our 
noses when passing through that part of a Burmese bazaar 
where the various kinds of ngapi are on sale and wonder how 
people can eat such nauseous stuff, it is probable that the 
Burman would turn away with at least equal horror from the 
high game of England or the Limburger cheese of Holland. 

Amongst the varied cargo on the steamer I noticed a 
large number of great jars or carboys wrapped round with 
coil after coil of straw rope. These contained, so the skipper 
told me, eggs from Chittagong, as many as 2,000 being packed 
in one jar. They are preserved in lime or salt. Other 
commodities carried were bags of rice and ground nuts, bales 
of cotton, iron pipes and machinery going to the oil fields of 
Yenangyoung, baskets of oranges, coconuts, bananas, and 


24 


Irrawaddy Yarns 


great packages of tea and tobacco leaf. The most interesting 
part of the steamer was the after-deck, with its crowd of 
Burmese passengers, each squatting on his own mat, and 
surrounded by his kit and belongings—an epitome of the 
riverside population. I spent many hours there watching 
the people and making sketches. 


Uf mM 


if 


Lan atte UET (CETTE an > i y } i) 
AH | ae i | 


aaa Ao ‘1 





On the third day after leaving Rangoon the scenery began 
to alter. The river banks became steeper, the paddy fields 
less frequent. And to the West appeared a range of 
mountains, the Arakan Yoma, I believe. As I was at 
breakfast with the chief officer we passed close in to Gaudama 


39 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


Hill, on whose cliff sides a great number of Buddhas have at 
one time and another been carved by the pious. The figures 
are the conventional ones of the Buddha, some sitting, some 
standing, and some reclining. At one time the sea came up 
very much farther than it does at present, and there is a 
record of the building of a frigate at this spot only two 
hundred years ago. 





EVENING ON THE IRRAWADDY 


I found the skipper of the ‘‘ Nepaul ’’ a mine of informa- 
tion about Burma and the Burmese, and not quite so given 
to drawing the long bow as some of his confréres. The 
Irrawaddy Flotilla Company yarn is a byword in Burma, 
and if any enterprising person cares to travel up and down the 
Irrawaddy with a few cases of whisky in his kit, I have no 
doubt he could soon collect enough tall stories to filla good- 
sized book. A tourist with pencilin hand and aninexhaustible 

56 


Irrawaddy Yarns 


thirst for information, must prove a great temptation 
to a bored ship’s officer, though, to be fair, it is not only 
officers on the Irrawaddy steamers who give rein to their 
imagination when a tenderfoot comes along. More than one 
yarn has been published in all seriousness in books about 
Burma that was merely the invention of a resident driven 
almost to desperation by the questions of some insatiable 
visitor. A Bombay-Burma Company’s employee, in answer 
to the nine hundred and ninety-ninth query of a certain 
lady author, “‘ When food gives out in the jungle, what do 
you do ? ”’ replied : 

“Have you noticed holes in the trees that you cannot 
account for ? ”’ 

“Yes,’’ said the lady, wetting the point of her pencil. 

“Well, owls live in these holes. All you have to do is 
to put in your hand and pull out the owl. Then you pluck 
it and cook it and eat it. And it tastes very much like 
chicken.” 

Thus enlightened, the authoress returned to England, 
and in due course the book appeared, and in the book the 
story ; whereupon the Bombay-Burma man, delighted at 
finding his masterpiece told in print as true, bought up a 
large number of copies and distributed them amongst his 
friends with the story carefully marked in blue pencil. 

This is the yarn as I was told it, but it is, of course, 
quite possible that it, too, is an invention. 

It is said that two men talking together for an evening 
invariably arrive by midnight at one of two subjects—women 


37 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


or religion. My conversation with the skipper was no 
exception to the rule, but it was not religion that we arrived 
at. He told me that in the old days before the final 
annexation, King Theebaw, presumably anxious about the 
birth-rate, ordered every woman to wear a garnient called 
a “‘tamein,’”’ which was scantier than the lungyi, and open 
down one side, leaving the thigh exposed. The tamein had 
drawbacks. In windy weather it was liable not only to 
blow up, but to blow right off, an accident which cannot 
possibly happen with the lungyi, which is not only deeper, — 
but is made in one continuous piece, like a roller towel. The 
worst that can happen with a lungyi is for it to become 
unfastened, in which case the owner quickly squats down and 
adjusts it anew, or, for that matter, adjusts it without 
squatting down—a simple enough proceeding. 

In the old days it was quite usual for women to bathe in 
the river nude, and no one thought any more of it than the 
Japanese do of taking bathsin public. Then “ civilisation ”’ 
began to work, and the custom of bathing in a lungyi spread 
all over Lower Burma. It did not, however, reach Upper 
Burma until some time later, and the captain described to 
me how more than once he had had to rescue his female 
passengers from the police when travelling down from Bhamo. 
Ignorant of the new regulation, they went in for their evening 
dip sans clothing, and were promptly arrested, no doubt 
to their intense indignation, and marched to the lock-up. 
The captain had a tear in his eye as he told me this story— 
a tear for the good old days, now gone for ever, unless— 


58 








he > 


} \ p at en y 


ANTE 
Of av —% . t yt 


Ny 
i 






Customs at Child-birth 


horrible thought !—the tear was caused by suppressed 
laughter at the child-like way I was swallowing his yarns ! 

Burmese women, though illiterate, are a good deal more 
enterprising and energetic than the men. While their 
men-folk are lolling around smoking cheroots or gambling 
their money away on the races or anything else that serves 
as a pretext for betting, the women are busy at their stalls 
in street or bazaar. And in the intervals of business 
they have many children, for despite the narrow hips 
popularly supposed in the West to be prejudicial to child- 
bearing, the Burmese women are exceedingly prolific. The 
rate of infant mortality, however, is very high. The 
children never wear clothing—or at least used not to, for 
to-day, except in the remoter districts, civilisation ordains 
some sort of scanty garment for all the girls except the 
tiniest—and in the rainy season many of them get carried 
off by chills and pneumonia. 

The rearing of a small baby is on Spartan lines, for from 
the beginning of its little existence it is always washed in 
cold water. On the other hand, the mother is wrapped up 
in flannels and surrounded with hot bricks and braziers of 
burning charcoal and kept so for a week, after which time she 
is left to recover from the treatment as best she can. 

Sir George Scott gives the following more detailed account 
of this curious custom : 

“ Directly the child is born, the mother is rubbed all over 
with na-nwin (turmeric), and a big fire is lighted as near as 
the construction of the wooden or bamboo house permits, 

61 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


while rugs and blankets are heaped over her to the extent 
of the possessions of the family. As speedily as possible, 
the midwife prepares a draught called se sein (green medicine), 
the composition of which is a tradition with the Wun-swés, 
and is kept a secret from inquisitive males. This the victim 
in bed has to drink perpetually during seven days, and for 
the same period, irrespective of the blankets and the time of 
year, is heated up with 6k pu. These are big circular 
or lozenge-shaped bricks. They are heated blazing hot in 
the wood fire, dropped for a few seconds into a pot full of 
water, and then wrapped up in cloths and applied to the body 
of the mother. In addition to this, doses of turmeric are 
regularly administered, and every now and then she is made 
to smell samén-net, a plant (the Nigella sativa), which is 
put in an earthen pot, strongly heated, and then triturated 
into the shape of a ball. The odour is not exactly such as 
one would recognise as calculated to exhilarate anyone, but 
probably after the hot bricks and the se sein, everything else 
comes as a matter of detail. All this is done to drive out the 
noxious humours which are supposed to be generated by the 
birth of a child. On the seventh day the woman takes an 
elementary kind of Turkish bath. She sits over a large jar 
of boiling water, medicated with tamarind twigs and a few 
other kinds of leaves and grasses, with a blanket over her. 
After about an hour of this she has a cold bath, and is then 
free to do as she pleases. She usually goes to bed. 

“It might be supposed that under this treatment, death 
in child-bearing would be very frequent, but as far as 

62 


Customs at Child-birth 


imperfect statistics can show the percentage is not much 
higher than in othercountries. The result, however, appears 
in another way. A woman ages up ten or fifteen years for 
every child she has. It is satisfactory to notice that in all 
the larger towns in Lower Burma, the more unpleasant 
features are fading away before the example and influence 
of women of other nationalities. Inthe jungle,and in Upper 
Burma, however, ancient use and wont still prevail, and the 
young mother of fourteen or fifteen is shrivelled into thirty 
with her first baby.” 

From the latter paragraph it seems that civilisation does 
after all carry with it some power for good, and that the 
effect of forcing Western ideas on an Eastern nation is not 
so entirely disastrous as, to many thoughtful and observant 
people, it sometimes appears. 


63 


CHAPTEKORY 


Footwearing Prohibited—-At Prome—Miss Pilkington’s Cockroach— 
Writing Reports—Thare-kettara—A School, a Dentist, and a Joss- 
house—Wife Beating—Thayetmyo—Minla—The Story of Nga Myat 
E—A Snake Story. 


T the entrance to every big pagoda in Burma a 
A notice-board is placed with the words “‘ Foot- 
wearing prohibited ’’’ upon it. Anyone who wishes to enter, 
whether European or native, must remove both shoes and 
socks and walk barefoot over the dusty stones, and it is now 
impossible to visit either the Shwe Dagon pagoda at 
Rangoon, or the Arakan pagoda at Mandalay, or the almost 
equally famous shrines at Pegu, Prome, Moulmein and 
elsewhere without conforming to the new rule. 

The visitor’s first thought is ‘‘ Well, why not? A 
foreigner is expected to remove his hat in an English place 
of worship; a European does not enter a Mohammedan 
mosque without either covering his boots with slippers or 
taking them off altogether; what objection can there be, 
then, to complying with the demand of the pongyis in 
regard to footwear when visiting the temples of Burma ?” 

The answer is that the demand is made with the direct 
intention of humiliating the Englishman. Its motive is 
political and not religious. For years past English visitors 


04 


Footwearing ‘Prohibited 


have been welcome at pagodas and kyaungs, and no such 
compliance with custom was either asked or expected. The 
new regulation is in fact a straw which shows the direction 
of the political wind, and no self-respecting Englishman will 
consent to obey it, since in obeying he is doing exactly what 
the pongyis want him to do—namely lowering himself in the 
eyes of the majority of the native population. 

A certain well-known Member of Parliament who recently 
visited Burma, failed to understand this, and to the intense 
annoyance of the British residents proceeded to visit the big 
pagodas barefoot. No doubt he meant well. But well- 
meant actions are often so disastrous in effect that to say of 
a person ‘“‘he means well’’ has become tantamount to 
damning him out of hand. The result of this stupidity, 
however well-intentioned, was to deal British prestige 
a heavy blow at a particularly critical moment in the political 
history of Burma, for the pongyis at the great Arakan pagoda 
in Mandalay were cunning enough to photograph this 
misguided M.P. as he walked barefoot across the courtyard, 
and to hang an enlarged copy—a scalp in the political battle, 
anda stimulus to the growing unrest—in the main entrance 
of the pagoda. 

Prome, where I had now arrived, boasts a particularly 
fine pagoda, which I should have much liked to inspect. 
But out of deference to the feelings and opinions of the 
British community, I was obliged to content myself with 
looking at the outside, and gazing up the long entrance 
staircase between the pair of huge leogryphs (in Burmese, 


05 
5 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


‘“‘chinthes’’’) that stand at the foot on either side. This 
staircase, supported by massive teak pillars and covered with 
a rising series of roofs each elaborately carved and decorated 
in the Burmese style, was a thing of great beauty. Burmese 
architecture reaches nowhere else such a high level as in the 
roofing of temples, theins, and pyatthats. The pyatthat, 
with its three, five, or seven roofs, is by far the most beautiful 
building to be found in Burma, and, particularly as 
exemplified in the pyatthats of Mandalay fort, is comparable 
for grace and design with any of the world’s masterpieces 
of architecture. Unfortunately the Burmese do not realise 
this, and the modern religious building—a poor imitation of 
the worst style of Indian architecture—is nothing less than 
a monstrosity. The kyaung of to-day is a great square 
building of staring white stucco crudely decorated in all the 
primary colours. A brick factory with a slate roof is a thing 
of beauty in comparison, and it may be doubted whether the 
architectural mind, capable as it unfortunately is of producing 
buildings of exceeding ugliness, has ever conceived anything 
more horrible to look upon than the modern Burmese kyaung. 
If it is an outcome of civilisation, civilisation here has some- 
thing very definite to answer for, and the Burman will be 
well advised to let civilisation, so far as it affects his 
architecture, go by the board. Itisa wise nation that keeps 
to its own architectural forms—especially when they are 
as fine as the architectural forms of ancient Burma. 

We reached Prome on December Ist, three days after 
leaving Rangoon. I said good-bye to the skipper and 

66 








c 


Pi A 
eee 






% 
ip OAD 











‘ oe 
Chet Wabi a saks YY Meg 
pe". ge d Pea nays Nat UF t 
ry 7 # oie f a ats iY 

















‘ ars a , 
by fyhir 


Miss Pilkington’s Cockroach 


went ashore with my “ boy” and the kit, and the same 
afternoon found myself comfortably installed as the guest 
of the agent of the Irrawaddy Flotilla Company. Throughout 
Burma I met with great kindness and hospitality from my 
compatriots. Wherever I went I was made free of the club 
and if not put up by somebody, as I frequently was, was 


ie 
Bey 


TY 
4 il (aE 





PLANK AND BAMBOO BRIDGE 


usually given all my meals, only sleeping at night in the “ dak 
bungalow.” I have every reason to be grateful to my fellow- 
countrymen in Burma. Also they provided me with many 
interesting stories. My host in Prome, being an ex-skipper 
of an Irrawaddy steamboat, had a fund of anecdotes. 
One of these comes to my mind. 


69 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


A certain lady, a Miss Pilkington, had travelled 
down to Rangoon on one of the Irrawaddy express boats. 
On arrival she wrote an indignant letter to the Company 
complaining that one morning she had found a cockroach in 
her bath. Cockroaches, enormous ones, are numerous enough . 
on the Irrawaddy boats, and such an accident might easily 
happen. However, the Company forwarded the complaint 
to the skipper, and in due course, the skipper being 
something of a humorist, received the following reply : 


Re Miss PILKINGTON’S COCKROACH. 
Your letter received and contents noted. I have given orders 
that cockroaches are not to be admitted to the ladies’ bath in 
future. 


A second story, also about a correspondence, concerns a 
certain young Deputy Commissioner who was in charge of a 
remote area in Upper Burma. Writing reports not being his 
strong point, months had passed without any news of his 
district being received by the authorities. At last they grew 
impatient and wrote threatening him with dire penalties if 
the report was not immediately forthcoming. The D.C., 
realising that something really had to be done, contrived to 
get a report written and sentin. It consisted of four words, 
“ Everything going on well.” 

The incensed authorities hereupon telegraphed “ The 
Lieut. Governor greatly pleased with your report.”’ 

To which the unperturbed D.C. replied, ‘‘ Much gratified 
that the L.G. is pleased.” 


7O 


Writing Reports 


Finding their sarcasm had miscarried, the authorities then 
wired, “‘ for ‘ greatly pleased ’ read ‘ not greatly pleased.’ ”’ 
The last word, however, still rested with the D.C. With 





A BANYAN TREE 


his tongue in his cheek he promptly wired back, “ for ‘ much 
gratified ’ read ‘ wot much gratified.’ ” 


I found Prome a picturesque town bowered in trees of 
all kinds, some with most wonderful gnarled and twisted 


71 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


trunks and many of enormous thickness and girth, especially 
the banyans. 

The view on the bund at sunset, and just after, is most 
beautiful. The sun sinks behind a range of hills on the 
opposite side of the river which, as the light fades, turn every 
shade of violet, purple and deep velvety black. The rainbow 
sky is reflected in the water, and graceful native boats and 
canoes are sharply silhouetted against the glow. A picture 
to carry in the memory. 

Early one morning my host took me in a car to see 
what remains of Thare-kettara, a city built about 400 B.c. 
by Duttabaung, the King Arthur of Burmese history. 
The road runs along the top of what was once the wall of 
the town. Little still stands save some old pagodas 
built in the form of a woman’s breast—solid masses of 
brick coated with concrete, which, cracked and broken 
away in many places, gives foothold for all sorts of 
vegetation and even for trees. 

On the way back we stopped at a village and went into 
the bazaar, or market. Here are some of the things I saw for 
sale—cheroots of various kinds, sizes and shapes ; betel-nuts 
both in the raw and prepared with lime and green leaves for 
chewing; dried fish and ngapi of all sorts; prawns 
skewered on sticks; a small pancake hot and smoking off 
the pan; plantains and oranges; gram, dahl, and different 
kinds of grain, and of course rice; native-made chatties and 
other pottery ; sandals ; cotton and stuffs ; marbles for the 
children ; pencils and slate pencils and sticks of soapstone ; 


72 


Ry, a, f 





Oe : { 
"Ha neleand A YA, % he or 
Se ve wh 


‘ ~v 


Ss jpn le 


; ‘ ‘ vt Aw yh 
; Wan at 


MAN fi : ; 
& yh kd 


ad i 





A School, a Dentist, and a Joss-house 


wooden combs and bone hairpins; “ thanaka”’ (which is 
used by the women as face powder to protect the skin from 
the sun and to prevent prickly heat), in powder, or in little 
balls, or in the raw form as sticks of the wood from which it 
is made ; umbrellas and sunshades ; Sunlight soap ; sewing 





YOUNG GIRL 


cotton, buttons and pins. Except for one covered building 
there were no stalls. The goods were displayed on the 
ground and the women squatted on their heels smoking 
great white cheroots. Some of the girls were very smart 
in their best clothes and with flowers in their hair; others 


75 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


were dirty and untidy in the extreme and looked as if a wash 
was several months overdue. 

We afterwards visited the bazaar in Prome; the same 
sort of thing on a far larger scale. They make silk in Prome ; 
also lacquer work, but the lacquer I saw for sale in the 
bazaar was shoddy stuff, crude in colour and design—cheap 
rubbish. 

Later in the day, whilst wandering about alone, sketch- 
book in hand, I passed a school and stood outside for a while 
to watch. The mistress was giving some little girls an 
arithmetic lesson at the blackboard, and when her back was 
turned the pupils peeped out and grinned at me from behind 
their exercise-books and slates—the same all the world over! 
Funny little beggars with the lower part of the head clean 
shaven, the hair at the top hanging down in a fringe all 
round from a “ bug-walk,” and a quaint little tuft or top-knot 
to crown everything. 

Just beyond the school I saw a notice which read : 


Maung San Bwin, Dentist. 
Late assistant to Dr. Moor. 


with what I take to have been a similar intimation in the 
curious round Burmese characters beneath. The surgery 
was open to the street on two sides, and I could see 
the dentist stooping over his victim and probing at a 
tooth. The victim’s motor-car waited in the street 
outside ready to carry him away as soon as his sufferings 
should be over. It seems funny to see motors in such 


76 





A School, a Dentist, and a Joss-house 


primitive surroundings, but they are fairly common in this 
part of Burma. 

Next I wandered into a Chinese temple, or joss-house, a 
building of the usual Chinese design—imitating the tent of 
Confucius—with much carving and elaborate ornamentation 
all over it. The interior was dirty and covered with dust. 
On an altar stood faded flowers, the remains of candles, and 
other offerings of the faithful, and in the place of honour, 
an ordinary English lodging-house bedroom mirror, with an 
inscription in Chinese characters painted on the glass and by 
way of additional ornament some gold tinsel on the top. 
East may be East, and West West, but with due respect 
to Mr. Kipling, the twain sometimes meet.. At all events, 
there was a piece of Tottenham Court Road staring me in 
the face from the altar of a Chinese Temple in the middle 
of Burma ! 

What other things did I see worth recording? I 
remember a rope-walk with the quaintest Heath Robinson 
appliances, and a turner’s shop with the most primitive sort 
of lathe—merely a wheel driven by coolie-power with a rope 
round it and round the piece of wood being worked on ; 
simple, but apparently quite effective. For the rest, the 
usual open shops and rickety stalls, the usual gaily-dressed 
crowd of Burmese, the usual troops of Indian coolies, the 
usual bullock-carts, rickshaws and gharries, the usual 
pot-bellied naked babies crawling about in the dust, and 
the usual snarling pariah dogs quarrelling over offal in the 
gutter. 

77 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


My host had to go up river on business and left by the 
ferry boat early on Sunday morning. Being in no hurry to 
continue my journey, I stayed until the next day, and 
wandered about as usual making sketches and taking photo- 
graphs. That evening about half-past eight my hostess 
came home in a state of agitation. On her way back from the 
club she had heard screams coming from the compound 
behind the Post Office, and had there found a “ durwan ” 
mercilessly beating his wife with a bamboo. She ran to two 
policemen who were standing near, but they did not show any 
interest. If a man was beating his wife, probably she 
deserved it, and anyhow it was no concern of theirs. So 
she ran back and ordered the man to stop, whereupon the 
fellow gave the woman a final whack and then picked her up 
by the shoulders and dragged her indoors, still shrieking. 
The Indian woman, even to-day, is regarded and treated as 
a mere domestic animal. 

I intended to catch the Monday morning ferry at 7 o’clock 
and gave my boy orders to call me and bring “chota hazri”’ 
at 6. To my horror he woke me at 6.40. I flew out of bed 
and “‘ flung on my clothes,” as the phrase goes, while the 
boy packed ; finally, with two coolies carrying my luggage 
on their heads and my boy bringing up the rear with the odds 
and ends that had been forgotten in the scramble, I arrived 
at the landing float just as the gangway planks were being 
unshipped. It was a near thing. 

The ferry boats are smaller than the express boats, but 
comfortable enough. And the food is quite good. That 


78 


Thayetmyo 


morning I was pretty hungry by 9.30, but the menu was too 
long for me even then. This was it: 


Fried fish. 

Sausages and fried eggs. 
Irish stew. 

Veal cutlets. 

Chicken curry. 

Fruit. 

Jam and marmalade. 
Tea and coffee. 


A fat Burman sitting next to me went solidly through the 
whole lot and never passed a dish. The Burmese are fond of 
meat, though it is contrary to their religion to take life. 
They say that if the butcher likes to risk his immortal soul 
in killing the beasts, that is his own affair ; and the fact that 
they eat the flesh afterwards does not involve them in any 
responsibility whatever. It is rather the same with fish. 
They say that it is the fish’s own fault if it is foolish enough 
to get into the net, and if it dies when thrown out on to the 
bank—well, how can they be blamed for that? And with 
such sophistries the Burman salves his conscience. 

At mid-day we reached Thayetmyo, where I went for a 
drive in a gharry to see the remains of the huge compound 
surrounded with barbed wire in which some of my friends, 
the Turks, were confined during the war. They were 
prisoners taken in Mesopotamia, and they had such a good 
time in the prison camp that when the war came to an end 


79 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


they had to be forcibly deported. They were a great deal 
better off as prisoners in Burma than we were as prisoners 
in Turkey. 

We returned to the ferry boat and continued the trip up 
stream. That evening we moored by a sand-bank which 
was stacked with wood fuel for supplying the Irrawaddy 





HUT ON THE RIVER BANE 


steamers. Burmese women and “ natives ”’ (by which, as I 
have already explained, the native of India is always meant, 
and not the native of Burma) brought our supply on board, 
carrying it on their heads. There was no end of chatter, 
laughter and noise. On the bank above stood half a dozen 
grass-thatched huts, all eating-houses patronised by the deck 
passengers of the passing boats. The village, I was told, 
was some little distance inland. I stated my intention of 
80 


Minla 


walking there for the sake of exercise, at which everyone 
laughed. I didn’t know it, but the road was simply loose 
sand more than ankle deep; I didn’t get far, so, instead, 
I amused myself by throwing coppers to a party of children 
who rolled after them on the sand, shrieking with laughter. 
They were the usual quaint objects with twisted top-knots 





A TOP KNOT 


and faces smeared with yellow streaks of thanaka—very 
dirty but apparently very happy. i 

At 9 a.m. the next morning we reached Minla, the place 
where the Burmese drums are made. A ruined fort of 
considerable antiquity stands on the river bank, and by it 
hangs a tale, for it was here that the British during the war 
stole a march on their opponents. The latter had, it seems, 

81 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


fixed all their guns pointing the same way, namely, in the 
direction of the expected attack. The British therefore 
attacked on the other flank where the Burmese guns could do 
no damage. Most people would regard this a normal action 
in the circumstances. Not so the Burmans, who were much 
aggrieved at what they considered an unfair and unsporting 
proceeding. Thereis everything in the point of view! 


Thayetmyo, the place mentioned in my diary as formerly 
the site of the Turkish prisoners’ camp, furnished me with two 
yarns, both true. One concerns a famous dacoit, the other 
is a snake story. The name of the dacoit was Nga Myat E, 
and an account of his capture appears in the Police 
Administration Reports of Burma. 

Nga Myat E was a man between thirty and forty, who 
lived by dacoity. He was the type of ruffian who with all 
his courage would not hesitate to rob a blind man or steal 
a child’s pennies. Many women suffered violence and 
robbery at his hands, their jewellery proving an irresistible 
attraction, and the holding up of villages became so frequent 
that the Thayetmyo district stood in terror of the fellow. 
What made it worse was that those who could have given 
intimation to the police of his whereabouts were too 
frightened to do so, so great was their fear of him, and even 
after three years with a price of Rs.500 upon his head, he 
was still at large. 

During an attack on a village in 1919 the occupant of 
one of the houses, awakened by the clamour and the noise 

82 


The Story of Nga Myat E 


of the dacoit guns, saw the hand of an intrudet come over 
the door sill. He reached for his “dah” and slashed at 
the hand, cutting off three fingers. It was the hand of 
Nga Myat E, who fled and escaped, but with a mark he could 
not henceforth disguise. This incident has no particular 
bearing on thestory, but it shows that evena chief of dacoitsis 
not invulnerable in spite of the numerous charms against bullet 
wound and sword cut which he always carries about him. 

At the beginning of the following year an armed police 
patrol was sent to the district to scour it thoroughly, and, 
if possible, obtain clues to his hiding-place. But though 
their search was exhaustive, they failed to discover anything 
or find their man, and even his accomplices in certain of the 
recent dacoities when run to earth refused to betray him or 
turn king’s evidence. 

Nga Myat E’s immunity seems to have been due, in some 
measure, to his friend Maung Min. This friend accompanied 
him everywhere, and, it is now known, sheltered him and 
found food for him when he was in hiding in the jungle—as 
he usually was. 

Now Maung Min had a pretty sister, and Myat E, being a 
man utterly unprincipled and regarding no laws either social 
or moral, abused Maung Min’s friendship by seducing her. 
This was the first false step. 

Soon after this Maung Min, ignorant of Myat E’s treachery, 
accompanied Myat E on a hurried flight from the district 
which had become too dangerous to remain in owing to the 
increasing activity of the police patrol. With the two men 


83 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


went a youth named Tun Hlaing, a nephew of Maung Min’s. 
All three travelled through the jungle in a south-westerly 
direction to a fastness in the rocks about twenty miles from 
a place called Mindon. Here they took shelter in a cave. 
The cave was commodious and comfortable, and as it could 
only be approached by a narrow path through the rocks, was 
almost impregnable. It could, at any rate, only be taken, 
if taken at all, with serious loss to the attacking party. So 
Ino doubt Myat E believed himself perfectly safe. But he 
had not reckoned with Maung Min’s sister. 

In the meantime Maung Min kept the party supplied with 
provisions bought from the villagers who lived in the 
locality. The villagers may or may not have known for 
whom the purchases were made, but if they knew they 
dared not say anything. They were satisfied to take the 
money and ask no questions. 

And then, somehow, news of Myat E’s relations with 
his sister came to Maung Min’s ears. Mad with rage he 
slipped away to Mindon, twenty miles distant, and made 
straight for the police station. Five minutes after Maung 
Min’s arrival the Sub-Inspector was in possession of the 
information so long wanted, and Myat E’s hiding place was 
nolongerasecret. Still hot on revenge, Maung Min travelled 
back to the cave, marking the way by scoring the tree trunks 
with his ‘‘ dah” so that the police could follow after him. 
Once there, he behaved as though nothing had happened, 
and Myat E, thinking he had been out on an expedition after 
food, had no suspicion of the true state of affairs. 


84 


A Snake Story 


Later in the day Myat E, who had been lying asleep in 
the cave with Tun Hlaing, was aroused by the sound of 
footsteps on the loose stones at the cave entrance. He 
looked up, saw the police, and reached for his revolver— 
but too late. A shot from the Sub-Inspector rendered him 
helpless, and an hour later he died of the wound. 

In addition to Myat E’s revolver, which contained only 
one cartridge, two home-made “‘ shomi”’ guns were found in 
the cave. Thanks to the courtesy of the Police Super- 
intendent I now have one of these guns in my possession. 
It is a roughly-made affair, rather like a crude old-fashioned 
horse pistol. The stock is of wood and the barrel a piece of 
old gas pipe, with the screw thread still round the muzzle 
end. The barrel is fastened to the stock with thick wire, 
and the gun was fired by means of a touch-hole, the 
burnt condition of the stock attesting to its having been much 
used. It was probably fired more to make a noise and inspire 
terror than with the idea of hitting anybody, and I should 
imagine that it was laid upon the ground at a safe distance 
and exploded by means of a time-fuse of cotton or some other 
material. It would have been as much as anyone’s life was 
worth to fire it from the shoulder. 


For the snake story I am indebted to the wife of the 
D.S.P. She was dining one Sunday evening at the doctor’s, 
her husband being out on tour. Half-way through the meal 
an agitated Burmese police constable came running to say 
that there was a cobra coiled up on the door of the house of 


85 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


the Sub-Inspector on the opposite side of the compound, 
just above the bed where a child lay asleep. The Sub- 
Inspector was away, and the child’s mother was in an agony 
of apprehension lest the child should move and attract the 
attention of the cobra. She implored the doctor to come to 
the rescue. 

It happened, most unfortunately, that the doctor had 
sent his gun to be repaired. A messenger was, however, 
despatched hot-foot to get it, while the doctor went to 
reconnoitre. He found the cobra, as the constable had 
described, coiled at the top of a half-open door, and the 
child asleep beneath. It was impossible to move the door 
without disturbing the beast and probably causing it to fall 
down on tothe bed. There was nothing to be done, therefore 
except to wait for the gun and trust that the child would 
continue to sleep in the meantime without moving. The 
poor Burmese mother was nearly distracted, and the two 
Englishwomen, the wife of the D.S.P. and the wife of the 
doctor, could do little to comfort her except counsel her to 
wait as quietly as possible. After twenty anxious minutes 
the messenger came back with the gun. It was not easy to 
fire without danger to the child from flying pellets, but by 
stooping as low as possible and aiming well up into the roof 
the danger was minimised. The first shot blew the reptile’s 
head off. 

The most amazing part of the story is that the child slept 
peacefully on, unconscious alike of the shot and of the 
danger through which it had passed. 

86 








CHAPTER VI 


At Minbu—The Myinmu Rebellion—The Footprints of Gaudama—I reach 
Magwe—and dine with the Commissioner—My “‘ Boy,” Valu—-The 
Oilfields of Yenangyaung. 


CARRIED with me an introduction to the Deputy 

Commissioner of Minbu, and at Minbu I therefore 
decided to make my next halt. The river was low, as it was 
the dry season, and the ferry boat had to land passengers and 
freight at a point several miles down stream, Minbu itself 
being temporarily inaccessible by water. On leaving the 
boat I climbed a high sandy bank, and at the top, in the shade 
of the trees, found a few pony carts waiting for fares. Coolie 
girls brought up my kit on their heads, making light of 
even my suitcase, heavy though it was with books and 
sketching gear, and a few minutes later we started off for 
Minbu, my boy and the kit in one cart, and I in another. 
These carts had no seat, so you either squatted, Burmese 
fashion, on the floor, or hung your legs out over the back. 
My driver rattled along at a good round pace, signalling to 
the slow-moving bullock carts which we kept overtaking by 
holding his whip-handle against the revolving spokes of one 
of the wheels. This made the same noise that a small boy 
makes by running a stick along a fence, and was usually 
effective enough to arouse the bullock-wallah, though 


89 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


gradually, to the necessity of drawing to one side. The brain 
of a Burman works slowly, and there was invariably a pause 
of some seconds between the driver’s rattle and the first 
motion of the bullock-wallah towards guiding his team out 
of the way. I noticed the same thing afterwards when 
motoring. This slowness of brain is common both to 
Indian and Burmese, and on this account it is customary to 
repeat every sentence when addressing a Burmese or Indian 
servant; the first statement arouses the servant’s brain 
to the fact that something is being said, the repetition enables 
him to grasp the import. The country was quite different 
in character from what I had previously seen, and it was 
evident that we were now in what is known as the “ dry 
zone.’’ Small scrub and cactus throve uncertainly in the 
arid soil. The trees were infrequent and stunted. Brown 
and yellow were the predominating colours except in the 
few patches of irrigated ground where paddy was growing. 
For here the rainfall is only 30 inches as against 120 in 
Rangoon. 

The road wound for several miles amongst small hills 
and nullahs and at last brought us through the village to the 
P,W.D. (Public Works Department) bungalow. This 
bungalow, in which I proceeded to establish myself, was 
pleasantly situated on an eminence, and with one exception 
I found it comfortable enough. The exception was a curious 
and objectionable odour from the bats that made their home 
in the roof. It had two large rooms and a wide balcony, 
and was raised from the ground on posts. Each room had 


go 


At Minbu 


its own bathroom attached, with the usual zinc tub, commode, 
and Pegu jar full of water. The walls were of bamboo 
matting, the posts, roof-beams and floor of teak. In fact, 
it was just such a bungalow as one finds all over Burma. 
The furniture consisted of plain chairs and tables and 
long lounge chairs. Each bedroom had a camp bed with 
poles to carry the mosquito curtain, and a dressing-table and 
mirror. In Burma, as in India, everyone takes his own 
bedding with him wherever he goes, as nothing of the kind 
is provided in the dak bungalows. The charge was the 
modest one of one rupee per day, and you could either take 
the meals provided by the “durwan”’ in charge, or let your 
boy get food from the bazaar and cook and serve it himself. 
As it happened, thanks to the kindness of the D.C., I did 
not need to take any meals at the bungalow with the 
exception of “ chota hazri.” 

That evening I was invited by my new friends to the 
club. Tennis was in full swing, the players being two 
Englishmen in the regulation white flannels, a Burman in 
pink silk lungyi and orange gaung-baung, another young 
Burman in European kit, and a Madrasi doctor. Ona seat 
watching the play sat a Burmese woman, a Eurasian girl, 
and the D.C.’s wife. It was fairly typical of the mixed 
society usually found at up-country stations in Burma. 
The tennis, played on a hard court, was good; in fact, 
the standard of tennis throughout the country is higher, 
I think, than the standard at home. 

On the next day the D.C. very kindly put himself and his 


Or 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


car at my disposal, and I was thus able to see a good deal of 
the country round Minbu. We first visited the mud volcanoes 
for which Minbu is famous. These volcanoes are conical 
heads of dried mud about twenty or thirty feet high. Each 
has a crater at the top which erupts liquid mud at intervals 
and splashes anyone who is unwise enough to stand too close. 
I discovered this quickly enough at the expense of a pair of 
clean white trousers. The volcanoes give off a strong odour 
of sulphur and other minerals and it is probable that their 
mud has valuable properties, though up to the present no 
tests have been made. The Burmese believe that “ nats,’’ 
Or spirits, inhabit them, and a small building like a little 
house on posts in which the villagers place propitiatory 
offerings of flowers and candles stands at the foot of the 
largest. 

In the course of our motor drive it was necessary twice to 
cross a stream. This was accomplished by means of a raft. 
Villagers placed two boards from the raft to the shore, the 
motor was driven up them on to the raft, and the raft then 
pushed across the stream by men wading waist high. At the 
opposite bank the two boards were again requisitioned and 
we reached terra firma without mishap. 

We passed many pagodas, some old and dilapidated and 
overgrown with vegetation, others shining with whitewash 
and gold leaf lately put on. But the finest I saw was at a 
kyaung called Kyaung Dawya. This kyaung, in addition 
to the pagoda, had several remarkably fine pyatthats, each 
decorated with elaborate carved work. The carving has been 


g2 





93 


4s Weal Vike 7 


fret) ae hye 
¥ ay ly te dati 144 8 odin ep Aes 





At Minbu 


recently done,and the carver, whether he knows it or 
not, is a true artist. His designs are strong and 
vigorous, his figures full of movement, and the whole 
conception well in keeping with the buildings for which the 
carving was planned. 

The village, in a grove of tamarinds, stands at a short 
distance from the kyaung. It is surrounded by a strong 
fence of interlaced bamboo, each bamboo sharpened to a 
point at the top, and called in Burmese a “ panji,’”’ to keep 
out dacoits. We went, in order to satisfy my curiosity, into 
one of the houses. It was built on posts, as Burmese 
dwellings usually are, and had a verandah or platform 
outside which was reached by a rickety bamboo ladder. The 
floor of both verandah and house was of bamboo, and springy 
to the tread. The single room contained nothing more than 
a couple of rush mats, a peacock feather fan, a drum, and a 
few cooking pots. In one corner of the bamboo flooring 
stood the fireplace—merely a circle of bricks. It looked 
exceedingly dangerous; but, outside, leaning against the 
platform, was the implement for putting out the fire should 
any accident happen—a long bamboo pole with a flat piece 
of tin at the end, and a hook. Fires are by no means 
uncommon, and when one really gets a start it often ends in 
the destruction of an entire village. But the Burman takes 
such a catastrophe very philosophically. He clears away 
the debris, proceeds to rebuild the village as quickly as 
possible, and thinks no more about it. There is not much 
opening for fire insurance business in Burma! 


95 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


I am indebted to the D.C. at Minbu for the following 
interesting account of what is known as the Myinmu 
rebellion, which occurred in the latter part of I910, and 
illustrates how, in a country like Burma, a small and 
apparently innocent thing can sometimes cause serious 
trouble. 

Myinmu is a small township in the Sagaing District, on 
the banks of the Irrawaddy some fifty miles below Mandalay. 
It is the headquarters of a Sub-division, and is a thriving 
little place, its chief exports being cotton and beans. 

In the early months of 1910 a villager eighteen years of 
age, by the name of Maung Than, was returning from his 
work in the fields to his village, Pegu, some fifteen miles from 
Myinmu. It was dusk and he was smoking a “ sebawleik,”’ 
the large Burmese cheroot. Apparently he must have 
dropped some red-hot ashes on to his sleeve, for some other 
villagers who were passing remarked that smoke was issuing 
from his arm. Being Burmans, they did nothing about it 
at the time, but calmly passed on. They mentioned it, 
however, when they got home, and the story, doubtless losing 
nothing in the telling, went the round of the village until it 
reached the ears of some of the elders. Now it happened 
that these elders were familiar with an old tradition 
according to which a former king of Burma, one Chanyeiktha, 
would be reincarnated in the shape of a youth who had the 
power of making smoke issue from his arms. The story 
at once took on grave import, and other signs and 
portents were looked for. Needless to say, they were soon 


96 


The Myinmu Rebellion 


forthcoming. The griffins at the foot of an old pagoda 
were seen to shake; gold showers fell on another pagoda ; 
and everywhere omens multiplied which pointed to young 
Maung Than as the long-foretold reincarnation of King 
Chanyeiktha. 

The neighbourhood began to hum with suppressed excite- 
ment, and the police began to take notice. Eventually they 
took Maung Than to the Deputy Commissioner, a young officer 
who was only temporarily stationed at Myinmu, and who 
had at that time had little experience. Not at all unnaturally 
he took the view that the matter was trifling and that it was 
wiser not to magnify it into something that called for police 
interference. The lad, Maung Than, appeared to be, and at 
that time probably was, perfectly harmless; therefore the 
D.C. sent him back to his village with a gift of a rupee or 
two as a small solatium for the trouble and expense to which 
he had been put. 

The kindness of the D.C. was, of course, misinterpreted 
by the youth and his friends. They took it as yet another 
sign of the rising power of the reincarnated king, and 
actually collected a small body of men in order to attack 
Shwebo—a fairly important military post with a garrison of 
half a British regiment and a number of police. Maung 
Than began to suffer from swelled head and gave out that he 
possessed the power of becoming invisible at will, though 
one wonders how he managed to substantiate his claim. 
He was also, according to his own account, invulnerable to 
bullet, arrow, spear or any other weapon. And he claimed 


97 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


to possess the power of causing, merely by knocking on the 
ground, the immediate appearance of a fine charger in full 
trappings. This transpired a year later, at his trial, when 
one of the witnesses stated in his evidence that Maung Than 
in attempting to enlist him in the little army that was about 
to attack Shwebo, had made this boast ; whereupon he (the 
witness) had asked for ocular proof of the miracle, and 
being disappointed had thought it wiser to return to his own 
homestead. 

The raid on Shwebo was, of course, an entire failure. 
But Maung Than managed to escape and make his way down 
to Lower Burma, where he remained hidden until the following 
October. In the meantime his friends and supporters had 
not been idle, and when Maung Than returned to Myinmu 
he found himself at the head of a following of 1,000 men, 
which included volunteers from the larger towns such as 
Sagaing and Mandalay. 

The police were aware of what was going on, and duly 
reported the state of affairs. But the whole thing seemed so 
fantastic and impossible that the reports fell on deaf ears 
and no preventive action was taken ; in fact, as sometimes 
happens in official circles, those reporting were reproved 
for their gullibility instead of being commended for their 
foresight. 

As a result of this inaction, on the early morning of 
October 30th, Maung Than and his army marched on 
Myinmu. They were armed with dahs and spears, the only 
firearm being an old horse pistol without any ammunition. 


98 


The Myinmu Rebellion 


Every man wore a white armlet as a magic protection 
against gunshot. 

In the Myinmu police-station—a double-storeyed, loop- 
holed building, of brick below and heavy teak planking 
above—were a few civil police and a detachment of military 
police armed with Martini-Henry rifles. Maung Than’s 
army advanced in “‘ fours ” or some similar mass formation, 
and when they arrived within 500 yards of their 
objective were met with a volley from the police-station, 
which laid out some of the leading files and killed two harmless 
and unoffending villagers 800 yards away. The shooting 
seems to have been wild, but it sufficed. The invulnerable, 
white-armleted army broke up and fled in confusion. Only 
Maung Than himself anda few courageous followers succeeded 
in getting anywhere near the police-station ; which, however, 
they did not attack, preferring to make a harmless demon- 
stration by dashing past it at full speed and then making 
good their escape. 

So ended the battle of Myinmu. 

Then began a hunt for Maung Than which lasted for 
some weeks. It is no easy matter to run an outlaw to 
ground in rough, wild country covered with scrub and jungle, 
and Maung Than successfully eluded capture. Eventually 
the police received information that a small party of men, 
amongst whom was Maung Than, had taken the train at 
Myingyan, thirty miles below Myinmu, whence a branch 
‘line connects with the main line between Mandalay and 
Rangoon. The pursuing Assistant Superintendent of Police 


99 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


reached the railway station too late. He therefore took the 
numbers of all the tickets that had been issued for Rangoon 
and telegraphed them to Police Inspectors along theline. The 
train was searched and Maung Than was identified and seized. 

Had the attack on Myinmu proved successful, the 
attacking force would no doubt have been largely reinforced 
and have had no great difficulty in securing an ample supply 
of arms and ammunition. Hapless Europeans would have 
had to suffer nameless tortures, and much blood would have 
been shed before tranquillity could have beenrestored. Here 
was a lesson to be learnt: namely, that the workings of the 
Burman mind are a sealed book to the European, and in a 
country like Burma, a rumour, however fantastic it may 
appear, is worth probing to the bottom. 

In course of time Maung Than was brought to trial 
together with his father, two of his uncles, and about forty 
others. Maung Than and his near relatives and the principal 
leaders in the attack on Myinmu were hanged at Mandalay 
gaol. Others were sentenced to transportation for life or 
varying periods of imprisonment. The remainder were 
allowed to go free, but their villages were fined and made for 
several years to support a force of extra police by compulsory 
contributions. Had the trouble been dealt with on its 
first appearance this would have been a shorter and a 
pleasanter story. 


The D.C.’s house, a substantial building of stone and 
brick, with wide airy verandahs looking on to the river, 
100 


The Footprints of Gaudama 


stood on the top of a hill. The view was magnificent. On 
each side stretched the valley of the Irrawaddy, silver in the 
morning, golden in the evening. Islands that are submerged 
during the rains were now bright green with paddy crops, 
and here and there upon them stood thatched huts, the 
temporary homes of the cultivators. In the far distance 
towards the North-east the cone of Mount Popa rose out of 
the haze, and a bright streak showed the course of the 
Irrawaddy as it came winding down from its remote sources 
in far-away Tibet. 

Behind the house, on another hilltop, stood a pagoda and 
a pyatthat. The kyaung was reached by a long flight of 
moss-grown steps where lizards darted about or basked in the 
sunshine. Beneath the pyatthat was the impression of a huge 
foot in concrete. The footprint, said to be that of the 
Buddha, was protected by a low parapet on which stood the 
remains of candles placed there by the pious, for the Minbu 
pyatthat is a holy spot and, like the other pyatthats which 
cover Gaudama’s footprints in different parts of Burma, 
a place of pilgrimage. The footprint, about five feet long 
by three feet wide, was oblong in shape, and the toes were all 
exactly the same size andlength. According to a convention 
which expresses moral greatness in physical terms, the 
Buddha is represented as having been of gigantic stature. 
Hence these enormous footprints. 

I left Minbu on December 7th, my objective being Magwe, 
on the opposite side of the river. I had an agitating business 
getting there. I sent my boy on ahead from the bungalow 

| IOI 


Peacocks and Pagodas 





A PYATTHAT 


at Minbu at ro o’clock, with my kit on a cart, with instruc- 

tions to go to the jetty whence a small local ferry starts for 

Magwe, and wait for me there. I followed in the D.C.’s 

car. But at the ferry there was no sign of either my boy 
102 


I reach Magwe 


or my kit. So we went on further to the landing-place of the 
bigger steamers. No boy and no kit there either. The 
D.C. met a friend who had arrived by the down-boat and 
departed home. Isat down to wait. And in the meantime 
the Burman in charge of the landing-float sent a boy back 
to the other ferry-landing to make enquiries. But with 
no result. At about 1 o’clock the big up-river ferry boat 
arrived, but I was afraid to go on by her without my kit, 
so waited for the mail boat, hoping that my boy might turn 
up. As soon as the ferry boat had taken her departure, the 
Burman ferry agent found the driver of the cart that had taken 
along my belongings that morning and ascertained from him 
that my boy had gone to Magwe by one of the earlier small 
ferry boats. I was furious. If the man had found this out 
a minute or two sooner I could have gone on by the boat that 
had just left. As it was, I had to wait on the river bank 
nearly two hours longer for the mail boat, and didn’t arrive 
at Magwe until after four. A bright Burmese lad with a 
pony cart met me there on landing and somehow conveyed 
to me that he could take me to where my kit and servant 
were. So I trusted myself to him and hoped for the best. 
It was all right. They were at the dak bungalow. My 
boy explained that he had put all the kit on board the ferry 
boat, expecting me to follow immediately, and that the 
boat had started with little warning and he had had no time 
to take the kit off again. 

I had an invitation to dine with the Commissioner that 
night at a quarter to eight. When the time came I told my 

103 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


boy to order a gharry and to tell the gharry-wallah to 
take me to the Commissioner’s, and thinking that everyone 
would know where such an important person as the Com- 
missioner lived, I drove off without any qualms. The gharry 
took me by devious ways through the dark and landed me 
at a bungalow. I paid the driver, who drove away. Then 
a doubt assailed me. It looked too small a place to be the 
residence of the great man of the district. I knocked and 
shouted. Noone answered. The front door was unfastened, 
so I went in and explored. But there was not a soul to be 
found. It was no use waiting there, so I went out, intending 
to make a desperate attempt to find the right house, though 
I was utterly lost and had not the smallest notion which way 
to go. But it was so dark that I couldn’t find my way out 
of the compound, and only succeeded in falling into ditches 
and getting mixed up with the flower-beds. I was in 
despair. Time was passing, and I knew that my only hope 
of dinner was to locate the Commissioner. I went into the 
house and shouted again ; but there was no answer except 
the hissing of a petrol lamp that stood in the hall. I looked 
at the lamp. It had a handle and would be easy to carry. 
The call of dinner was urgent, and—well—what else could I 
do? Hunger triumphed. I stole the petrol lamp and 
marched away with it. Once out on the road I turned at 
hazard to the left and came to another house. It was 
empty and apparently untenanted. I tried the opposite 
direction. All I found was a road with palm trees. No sign 
of human habitation, only a few lights burning dimly in 
104 


And dine with the Commissioner 


the far distance. I walked on carrying the lamp for what 
seemed to be about half a mile and at last I found some 
Burmese sitting round a fire. An old woman with her hair 
hanging about her face came to see what I wanted. I made 
a gesture intended to convey interrogation and_ said 
“ Commissioner.’”” She appeared to understand and pointed 
down the road in the direction I had just come, talking in 
voluble Burmese, of which, of course, I didn’t understand a 
single word. There was nothing for it but to trust to her 
directions, so I retraced my steps and at a forked road bore 
by a sort of instinct to the left. Soon I saw a white gate 
with a board by it, and on the board, to my intense relief, 
the word ‘“‘ Commissioner.”’ I arrived half an hour late for 
dinner, carrying a lamp stolen from a house which I knew I 
could never find again by myself. The Commissioner, 
however, made a good guess at the owner from my descrip- 
tion, and the lamp was sent back by a servant, and all 
ended happily. Ishould have been a good deal more agitated 
than I was, though, if I had known what I was told after- 
wards—that the place where I groped about in the dark was 
teeming with snakes—cobra, krait and Russell’s viper, all 
deadly! I was sent home in charge of an Indian servant 
armed with a lantern and a big stick. 

I have several times mentioned my boy—though “boy”’ 
is rather a misnomer for a married man with a family of 
four children. He was a Madrasi called Valu, and as he 
turned out to be worth the money I paid him, he may be 
said to have justified his name. His wages were Ks.35 

105 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


(£2 6s. 8d.) a month while in Rangoon, and Rs.45 (£3) a month 
plus 8 annas a day “food money ”’ while away on tour. 
He was body-servant, cook, courier and general factotum, 
and as he spoke both English and Burmese in addition to his 
own lingo, could also act as interpreter on occasion. When 
travelling about the country and stopping at dak bungalows 
a servant is a necessity, but even in Mandalay and Rangoon 
and the larger towns it is customary for everyone to have his 
own “ bearer,’’ or “ boy,’’. who goes where his master goes 
and stays where his master stays, and waits at table and 
makes himself generally useful wherever his master receives 
hospitality. He carries his small personal belongings 
rolled up in the bamboo mat which constitutes his bedding, 
and he sleeps in his clothes on the floor. Valu, all the time 
I was travelling about Burma, managed to appear in garments 
of clean white cotton. How he did it is a mystery I have 
never been able to fathom. When we left Rangoon he wore 
on his head a small round cap, but when we went north and 
the weather grew colder, he purchased a thick knitted 
Balaclava cap of grey wool, from which he seemed to derive 
much comfort. For some reason the natives of hot countries, 
whose skulls defy any amount of sun, always smother the head 
in heavy wraps as soon as the weather becomes at all cool, 
though the body receives, and appears to need, little addi- 
tional clothing. The favourite Burmese headgear during the 
cold season up-country is, as I have already mentioned, a 
bath towel. My only trouble with Valu was due to his 
invincible belief in the inexhaustibility of my purse, which 
106 


The Oil Fields of Yenangyaung 


led him to disburse backshish to coolies and others with an 
almost royal liberality. Infact he ‘‘swanked’’ at my expense. 
But when a native who can live comfortably on eight annas 
a day, sees a “‘sahib’”’ paying out five or six rupees for a 
single meal, or disbursing what seem to him huge sums in 
railway and steamer fares, at every turn, he may be forgiven 
for imagining that ‘‘ master ’”’ has only to write a cheque and 
go with it to the bank in order to draw money whenever he 
wants it. Alas! if only it were true ! 


One of the most astonishing places in Burma is Yenang- 
yaung. Here one finds a bit of Texas—just about the last 
thing the visitor would expect to find—moved bodily over 
from the U.S.A. Oil rigs of American pattern disfigure the 
landscape and the nasal drawl of the Yankee driller is heard 
in the land. Fords and Overlands dash about the rough 
roads scaring the bullock-carts into the ditch with their 
raucous horn-blasts ; while poker goes on at the American 
Club from night to morning amid a knee-high litter of used 
playing-cards and the fragrant incense of rye whisky. In 
short, it is the place where the oil comes from. 

A cyclone in the Bay of Bengal had affected local weather 
conditions, and when I arrived at Nyoungla, the landing- 
place for Yenangyaung, it was raining. I had travelled up 
from Magwe in the company of an electrical engineer in the 
employ of the Burma Oil Co. He took me out to his 
bungalow at the edge of the oil field, and very kindly put 
me up during my stay. Yenangyaung (literally “‘ the place 

107 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


of the smelly water”’) is about three miles inland from 
Nynoungla, and the oil field is a mile or so further on. It 
is a solid mass of tall wooden rigs. They stand up on the 
skyline in a phalanx like a forest of skeleton trees with here 
and there a big circular reservoir bulking black amongst 
them. The noise of drilling and pumping, punctuated by 


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A ' 
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PN | ine 


= = ats if 


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OIL RIGS AT YENANGYAUNG 


the rhythmical explosions of the gas engines that drive the 

machinery, goeson night andday. The field fairly hums with 

industry, and a pipe-line 275 miles long carries the oil direct 

all the way to Rangoon. The companies pay big dividends, 

everyone employed seems to be rolling in money, and 

Mammon is the god that is worshipped. In fact, the whole 
108 


The Oil Fields of Yenangyaung 


spirit of Yenangyaung is as far removed from the true 
spirit of Buddhist Burma as the North pole is from the South. 

In consequence of the rain, a very unusual phenomenon 
at this period of the year, it was exceedingly difficult to get 
about. The roads, generally thick with dust, were perfect 
quagmires of slippery mud. It was hopeless to try to keep 
dry; the only thing was to plunge ahead through the 
slough as best one could. In spite of this I contrived to see 
the field fairly thoroughly. 

It is a strange mixture of East and West. Americans 
and British, dressed in topee and shirt and shorts, drive 
about in motor cars. Indian coolies, dressed in just a little 
more than nothing, are hauling enormous iron pipes along 
the road. Burmese clerks employed in the offices brighten 
the scene with their lungyis of rose, orange, purple and red. 
Bullock-carts struggle clumsily about loaded up with pipes, 
or coils of wire rope, or with the oil just collected from a 
native well, which splashes from the kerosene cans in which it 
is carried and leaves a trail of black grease in the roadway. 

The Burmese wells are worked by hand in the old-fashioned 
Burmese way just as if they were not hemmed in on every 
side by monstrous towering rigs and by steam engines, 
boilers, electric power stations, and all the paraphernalia of 
a modern oil outfit. The Burmese method is to let down a 
bucket at the end of a rope. As soon as it has reached the 
bottom of the well several workers, both men and women, 
seize the rope and run with it down an incline, thus bringing 
the oil-filled bucket to the surface. The bucket is then 

109 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


emptied into a reservoir cut in the ground, which allows the 
water to drain off, and the process is repeated. They have 
not yet arrived at using a windlass. Now and then it is 
necessary for somebody to go down the well to make small 
repairs, and in order to avoid asphyxiation by the fumes, a 
home-made diver’s helmet fashioned out of an old kerosene 
tin is then worn. A long indiarubber tube is fastened to the 
helmet in order to provide the diver with a modicum of fresh 
air, and in this primitive rig-out he does his dangerous work 
while someone at the top throws a reflected light down the 
well by means of a mirror. 

If I were a Burman I should feel very bitter at seeing 
the wealth of the oil fields being exploited by foreigners and 
the money going into the hands of British and American 
shareholders. And I should feel still more bitter if I 
happened to be one of those Burmans who, believing in the 
good faith of the Britisher and ignorant of the true value of 
my oil well, had sold it for a miserable 100 rupees or so to 
a “ business ** man who was betterin the know than myself. 
This happened often enough in the early days. Later on 
50,000 rupees was asked and received for the rights in a well, 
and even at that price it wasa gift. Then the Burmans “ got 
wise’ and many refused to part except for a royalty on every 
barrel of oil marketed. These men became very wealthy 
and means had to be found to prevent them from getting 
any richer at the expense of the poor downtrodden British 
and American shareholder. So the Burman would be 
told some yarn about the well beginning to peter out. The 

IIo 


The Oil Fields of Yenangyaung 


pumps would be worked only a short time every day instead 
of day and night, and the royalties paid to the Burman would 
automatically decrease. Then the owners would make the 
Burman an apparently generous offer—to pay him a lump 
sum equal toall the back royalties (thus doubling the royalty) 
in consideration for the whole of the rights in future, which 
in view of the coming failure of the well could not possibly 
be worth much. This offer would be gratefully accepted 
by the Burman, and immediately the pumps would be put 
on full time and the oil begin to flow as fast as ever, greatly 
to the benefit of all concerned—except perhaps the Burman. 
Some people might think this immoral. Not at all! It is 
merely “‘ business.’’ All the same, let us hope that the days 
when such chicanery was considered justifiable are long past. 

After visiting Yenangyaung and seeing for oneself what 
is being done there it is rather amusing to read the following 
extract from a book published in 1888. It is called ‘‘ The 
Coming of the Great Queen” and is by Major Edmond 
Charles Browne. 


This night we drew up and anchored at Yenangyaung, near 
which town are a number of earth-oil wells, which have been worked 
steadily for many years without any very marked success. The 
trade in earth-oil, it is said, has been damaged by the importation 
of kerosene, which is far superior. The former is now principally 
used for preserving wood from the combined effects of weather and 
white ants. 


Were the gallant major to see Yenangyaung to-day he 
would no doubt be the first to admit that he was not gifted 
with the spirit of prophecy when writing this paragraph. 

III 


CHAPTER VII 


Burmese Music. 


T is sometimes said by musicians to-day that the diatonic 
scale is played out or nearly played out; and that the 
time is imminent, since the permutations and combinations 
possible from a scale of twelve semitones are limited, when 
no new tunes can be written. And indeed when one listens 
to certain works of the moderns, particularly those of the 
younger school of Russian composers, one really begins to 
wonder if the statement may not be true. Both melody and 
harmony seem to have gone by the board. Masses of sound, 
sometimes exhilarating, often excruciating, obeying no 
known laws, have taken their place. The pessimists assert 
that there is only one remedy for this state of affairs, namely 
to adopt the Eastern scale with its quarter-tones, three- 
quarter-tones, and other sub-divisions of the octave. The 
permutations and combinations will then have a chance to 
get going again and melodic music will once more come into 
its own. So when I came to Burma I felt that I must seize 
the opportunity of enquiring into the Eastern scale in the 
hope of bringing back information of value to our composers 
of the future. I was to be a pioneer leading the way to 
heights hitherto undreamed of, and by my humble agency 
112 


SAAN 
a) 
cma as. 





TODDY PALMS 


7 ae, 
“« 


be’ 
ah 


t 
ioe 


a) oe, 


< Se 


Mei 


se ps ig Ube OF 
Mobos) OTM Me oP, 
, Me iv 





Burmese Music 


might even start the worn-out music of the West on a new 
lease of life. It was a stimulating idea ! 

A story is told of a well-known musician who left the 
Queen’s Hall, after sitting through an _ ultra-modern 
symphony, almost in a state of collapse. When he got home 
he sank into a chair and exclaimed, ‘‘ For God’s sake, some- 
body, bring me a whisky and soda and play me the chord 
of C major!” 

I felt much the same after listening to the Burmese band 
which I mentioned in the first chapter. My brain reeled at 
the thought of attempting to write down the sounds on paper, 
and although there seemed to be a profusion of quarter-tones 
and three-quarter-tones, and all sorts of other queer divisions 
of the tone and semitone, it failed to convey to my mind 
anything tangible. There was absolutely nothing to catch 
hold of. I gave it up in despair and went to the music shop 
in Rangoon and bought some Burmese gramophone records, 
hoping that by playing them over and over I should 
at last get a glimmer of light on the problem. It was a good 
idea, but unfortunately my nerves gave way under the 
strain and I got no further. 

And then at last I arrived at a place called Sale 
(pronounced Salay, with the accent, as is usual in 
Burmese, on the last syllable), and here I found the 
solution. 

It was my next stopping-place after leaving Yenangyaung, 
and I travelled there comfortably in a launch belonging to 
the Burma Oil Company, which had been put at my disposal 

II5 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


by the courtesy of the manager. Having a letter of intro- 
duction from the Commissioner at Magwe to the Township 
Officer, a Burman called Hla Tin, I sent my boy along with 
it on arrival, and soon afterwards found myself at Hla Tin’s 
house being hospitably entertained and made welcome. 
He spoke good English and proved to bea very intelligent and 
well-read man. He lives in the Burmese style, but instead 
of squatting on the floor, sits in a chair—or did so when I 
was there—in European fashion, and uses a “ Corona ”’ 
typewriter. The house is built on posts, but the lower 
part is closed in and made use of. The living and 
sleeping-rooms are partitioned off with bamboo matting, 
and the floor (in this case of boards) is covered with 
highly-polished mats made of woven cane—a kind of mat 
much valued in Burma for its wearing qualities, lasting as 
long as 150 years and being handed down as an heirloom 
from father to son. The Burmese, of course, never wear 
shoes indoors; the mats would not last nearly as long 
otherwise. 

This being the “cold weather’’ and the temperature 
being the comparatively Arctic one of about 75° Fahrenheit, 
a log was burning, on the morning of my call, in a brazier in 
the middle of the room, and Hla Tin himself was well 
wrapped up in a thick khaki coat of either British or German, 
probably German, origin, and further protected from the 
bitter cold by a woollen comforter and a knitted Balaclava 
cap. I had glimpses of his family from time to time, and 
made the acquaintance of a little girl rejoicing in the name of 

116 


Burmese Music 


Tin Mah Mah who, however, proved very shy and reserved. 
She had the usual shaven head, except for a fringe hanging 
down all round from a little twisted top-knot out of which 
stuck a rakish-looking tail of hair about six inches long. 
I could not tell her sex until her father explained that she was 
wearing a lungyi with a band of a different material at the top, 
a feature which does not appear in the male garment ; and 
also that the lungyi was fastened in the woman’s way, namely 
tucked in flat instead of being bunched up at the centre of the 
waist like a man’s. 

As I had been told that Hla Tin was an accomplished 
musician, I broached the subject of music and told him of 
my desire to learn something about the art as practised in 
Burma. He called his little daughter, Tin Mah Mah, who 
came in from the next room, sank down on the floor, shikoed 
politely as all well-brought-up Burmese children are expected 
to do, and departed in search of her father’s mandoline. A 
further edifying exhibition followed when she returned with 
the instrument. She took it out of its case, again sank down 
on the floor, and then held it out to her father from a 
polite and respectful distance. There was no sign of the easy 
familiarity with which the Western child of to-day treats 
its indulgent parents. But little Tin Mah Mah, being 
descended from the kings of Burma, had royal blood in her 
veins and in other circumstances might have been living as a 
princess in the great palace at Mandalay. That she would 
have sustained the réle with credit I have not a shadow of 
doubt. 

II7 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


Hla Tin, having fixed up his mandoline, proceeded to 
play meatune. The tune, he said, was the introduction to 
the ‘‘ baw le,” and the “ baw le” is the tune to which all 
songs of a sad and plaintive character are commonly sung— 
though there is nothing about the tune that sounds sad to 
Western ears. The short introduction was in two parts, 
the lower being a kind of rough counterpoint. It is 
played at the beginning, between every verse, and at 
the end. I wrote it down.on paper in Western notation 
after several repetitions, and upon examining the upper 
part, or tune, was interested to find that it was, appar- 
ently, in the pentatonic scale. I then successfully trans- 
cribed the “‘ baw le’’ tune proper, but this was, I found, 
approximately in our ordinary major scale, and it was 
difficult to say for certain whether or not the tune had 
originally been pentatonic. 

The pentatonic scale, as all musicians know, is one 
of the earliest and most primitive scales. It dates 
back to the time when human ears were unable to 
‘appreciate, or possibly could not endure, the interval 
of a semitone. The black notes on the piano give it. 
In the key of C the notes are C D E—G A—C. It 
therefore consists of three whole tones, and two intervals 
of a tone and a half where ordinarily we should find the 
notes F and B. The interval of a semitone is thus 
avoided altogether. 

I give below the “ baw le”’ tune and its introduction, as 
played to me by Hla Tin. 

118 


Burmese Music 


(} ntroduction) 





The ;words of the first verse, written by Princess 


Htaikkhaungdin 


are 


’ 


Seinchu kyar nyaung kyar naung 


Shway la young lin par lo 


Hman shwe pyadin ye ka 


Mekhu hmyaw 


Thone chet see daw see daw 


Yike saw nhyin de lay 


Lin hlu paw naw. 


11g 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


And the translation, by U Po Than, runs 


The moonlight sleeps on the bright cot 
Of dragon leg and lotus spot. 

Through window glazed I see my dear, 
The drum strikes three, the morn draws near. 


Being a little perplexed by the “‘ baw le” tune itself, I 
asked for another tune, and was played, and contrived to 
write down, the Burmese national tune, the tune that is 
used, I understand, for the National Anthem and all songs of a 
national character. This had no very apparent traces of 
pentatonic origin either, and I began to think I was on a 
false scent. 


National Song 








(The literal translation of the National Anthem as given 
me by Hla Tin runs: “ May success attend! To bring 
success we will pour cool water over the Thabye flowers.”’) 


At this stage in the proceedings several local musicians 
arrived, word having been sent out into the village by Hla 
120 


Burmese Music 


Tin that an English “ thakin ”’ interested in music was paying 
him a visit. One of the men brought with him a “ pattala.”’ 
The pattala is a sort of zylophone made from slats of bamboo 
strung over a boat-shaped sounding-box. It is played with 
two knobbed sticks and has a pleasant mellow tone. The 
owner of the pattala, who was evidently an accomplished 
performer, played several tunes, but they were so interlarded 
and loaded up with ornamental runs, trills, appogiaturas, 
and grace notes that it was exceedingly hard to get down to 
bed rock. With his permission I squatted on the floor and 
took the sticks and played the introduction to the “ baw le ”’ 
that Hla Tin had taught me. It was easy enough to do when 
once you had fixed in your mind the positions of tonic and 
dominant, but the company, in their polite Burmese way, 
pretended to be overwhelmed with astonishment at the 
ability of a ‘‘ thakin ”’ to play a Burmese tune on a Burmese 
instrument without any previous rehearsal. 

The pattala, which seemed to be in the key of C, had an 
eight-note scale; but at first I was puzzled to classify it, 
since in the upper octave the note B was nearer to B flat 
than to B natural, whereas in the lower octave it was the 
other way about. How to account for an approximate 
B flat in one octave and an approximate B natural in the 
other octave of the same instrument was a problem. The 
note F in both octaves was indeterminate. It seemed to be 
about midway between F and F sharp. This first suggested 
to me what I now believe to be the true explanation, which 
is that the pentatonic scale is the foundation and that notes 

Lea 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


have been roughly inserted in the two gaps between E and 
G and between A and Cin order to make the scale approximate 
to the Western major scale. I was not sure of this at the 
time, but subsequent investigations confirmed it. 

A very old Burman now came in and squatted on Hla 
Tin’s polished mats. This was Saya Tu, eighty-two years 
of age, at one time master of a thousand songs, though now, 
as he sadly admitted, only about three hundred remain in 
his memory. Nevertheless, a repertoire of three hundred 
songs is not to be despised, and if only I had been Mr. Cecil 
Sharp I should have produced pencil and paper instanter and 
set to work to note down the lot. But really hard work has 
never been one of my vices, and I let the opportunity slip. 
Also, to tell the truth, the tunes I had already made a note 
of were hardly of sufficient merit to tempt me further afield. 

Saya Tu was a charming old man. Love of music, he 
said, had kept him young. What a difference to the urgent 
West, where only too often love of music, especially when 
combined with the necessity of earning a living by it, makes 
a man prematurely old! He and Hla Tin promised to 
arrange for a full Burmese band to come up to the dak 
bungalow that evening and play to me as long as [ liked, 
and with that I made my adieux and departed. 

Having now arrived at what appeared to be a working 
theory as to the genesis of Burmese music, I awaited the band 
with some impatience. At about five o’clock in the afternoon 
they came, with their drums, and gongs, and other instru- 
ments in a bullock-cart. Under the shade of a tamarind 

t22 


Burmese Music 


tree they set themselves out, the drummer in the middle of 
his drum circle, the gong player among his gongs, the oboe, 
the bamboo percussion instrument, the cymbals both large 
and small, at the back, and at one side the big drum and four 
smaller drums tuned “ tonic, dominant ’”’ in octaves some- 
thing like our own orchestral drums at home. A crowd of 
onlookers, including old Saya Tu, lined up behind. 

Before they began to play I examined both the gong 
circle (“‘ kyi-waing ’’) and the circle of drums (“ saing-waing ’’) 
The tuning of the gongs, as I rather anticipated, was similar 
to the tuning of the pattala I had examined that morning 
at Hla Tin’s. The key was approximately C major, with 
an indeterminate F and an indeterminate B. The drum 
circle, however, was tuned, I was excited to find, in the 
pentatonic scale; there was no F and no B, with the one 
exception of an F in the top octave of all. The actual notes 
of the drum circle were 





The tuning was done by placing a small piece of clay on 
the middle of the drum-head, and spreading it out and 
adding to it or reducing it until the required note was reached. 

123 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


If the consistency of the clay was too stiff, the drummer 
merely spat into it, more or less copiously as the occasion 
seemed to demand, and rubbed it up afresh. 

My discovery of the pentatonic tuning of the drum circle 
fairly convinced me that the pentatonic scale is, as ] had 
begun to suspect, the foundation of Burmese music. And 
when I came to re-examine the two tunes which I had thought 
showed no signs of pentatonic origin, I found one significant 
point which I had previously overlooked—all the cadences 
were pentatonic, and there was no cadence in which the 
leading-note B appeared as the penultimate note. 

The oboe, a tiny little pipe with open finger-holes and a 
brass “ bell’? hung loosely on the end, was fitted, I found, 
with a mouthpiece containing six reeds, three on each side. 
Its note was piercing in the extreme and quite capable of 
penetrating the best sound-proof chamber ever constructed. 

The cymbals need no description. 

The remaining instrument was merely a bit of thick 
bamboo about three feet long which was struck with two 
sticks. 

As soon as the tuning was over and everything in order, 
I asked for the ‘‘ baw le,” and stood with my pencilled notes 
in my hand ready to follow. I recognised the introduction, 
but after that all was chaos. Only the merest phantom of 
the tune emerged from the riot of extra notes and ornament 
put in at the fancy of each individual player. The gong 
man hammered away at his gongs and the oboe squeaked 
more or lessin unison. The drum circle, being pentatonic, 

124 


Burmese Music 


could not, of course, play exactly what was being played by 
the instruments which boasted a full scale of eight notes, 
but the drummer, striking his drums with fingers only, did 
his best. The old fellow whose instrument was the bamboo 
clapper appeared to be the conductor, and indicated what we 
should call the bars by hitting his bamboo a resounding 
whack with both sticks at once. The cymbals, bass and 
treble, chimed in whenever they felt like it, and the big 
drummer kept a steady “‘ tonic dominant ’’ accompaniment 
going nearly all the time. The result was a cheerful, but to 
my unaccustomed ear, exceedingly monotonous noise. 

By this time there was no doubt in my mind that the 
quarter-tones and other strange intervals were merely the 
result of accident, and that my theory was the right one, 
namely that the present scale of Burma is nothing more or 
less than a rough approximation to the Western major 
diatonic scale made by inserting two extra notes in the 
original pentatonic scale at the gaps between the third and 
fifth notes and between the sixth note and the octave. 
Therefore it turns out that, so far from being able to perceive 
such a delicate interval as a quarter of a tone, the Burman is 
only now growing used to the semitone, and even yet the 
very narrow semitone that occurs in the Western scale 
between the seventh and eighth notes (otherwise leading-note 
and tonic) is too fine for the Burman ear. 

The insertion of the indeterminate notes would easily 
lead the casual observer to imagine quarter and three- 
quarter tones. The occurrence of such tones, however, or 

125 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


of what appear to be such tones, is, as I say, purely accidental 
and due to these indeterminate notes alone. 

The Burmese band, owing to the fixed scale of the gong 
circle, always plays in one key. The band which | have 
been describing was in C major—approximately. The 
absence of semitones or accidentals makes modulation into 
other keysim possible, consequently monotony is unavoidable. 
The only variations available are those of time, 
rhythm, and accent, and those obtained by grace-notes, 
appogiaturas, and runs, added at the discretion of the 
individual performer. The licence allowed to the individual 
and the fact that the drums with their limited pentatonic 
tuning cannot play exactly what is being played by the 
other instruments, make Burmese music a characteristically 
happy-go-lucky affair. It is sometimes pleasant to listen 
to, 1 admit—for a short time ; but the Western musician can 
learn nothing from it. Nor, if it comes to that, can he learn 
anything from the Burman about making a really good noise. 
This is an art in which our ultra-modern composers have 
nothing to learn from anybody ! 


126 


CHAPTER VIII 
Politics in Burma—The Upright Judge—Bribery and Corruption. 


AFTER a dull chapter about Burmese 
music it is a little hard on the reader 
to have to follow on with such a dry 
subject as Burmese politics. But as, 
it cropped up in my conversations with 
Hla Tin at Sale, and as moreover it 
must be touched upon somewhere in 
a book that professes to deal with 
modern Burma, the present moment 
seems fitting. At all events, the reader 
has this advantage over the writer—he can at least skip it if 
_he feels so inclined. 





The Burmese are divided into two main classes : (a) those 
who are interested to a greater or lesser extent in politics, 
and (6) those who take no interest in politics whatsoever. 

The Burman, by nature indolent, easy-going, and 
unambitious, able to live by a minimum amount of work in 
his paddy patch, and to provide a home for himself with a 
few posts, some bamboo poles, and a thatch of palm leaves, 
feels no great stimulus towards revolt. He is too contented 
with existence. He has his cheroots, his betel nut, and an 

127 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


, 


occasional ‘‘ pwe’’ as an excuse for merrymaking, and he 
wants little more. It is discontent with existing conditions 
that makes for political strife, and discontent—at least in the 
country districts of Burma—is, or was until recently, non- 
existent. Consequently, the class which takes no interest 
in politics is a large one. 

It is the Burman of the town who is the politician. He is 
more in touch with the ideas of the West. He has been taught 
to his lasting loss, to sit on a chair where previously he was 
content to squat on his heels. The chair has brought with 
it the need for a table. In fact, non-essentials, of which we 
may take chair and table as symbols, have become essentials, 
and Western civilisation is rapidly succeeding in making a 
large part of a contented people discontented, thereby 
creating a Frankenstein’s monster which may some day turn 
and rend it. 

However, we have to deal with things as they are and not 
as they might have been. 

The political section of Burma can be roughly divided 
thus : 

(1) The non-co-operators, who want complete independ- 

dence. 

(2) Those who think that the time for independence is 

not yet ripe, but whose ultimate aim is independence. 

(3) Those who want self-government within the British 

Empire. 
(4) Those who prefer British rule, provided that they are 
allowed to share in the government themselves. 
128 


Politics in Burma 


With regard to the non-co-operators. Without the 
support of the priests they would be negligible, but with the 
support of the priests they are becoming the most formidable 
political party in Burma. Why the priests in particular 
should have assumed an attitude of rebellion it is difficult to 
understand. In the first place, for a priest to take any 
active part in politics is entirely contrary to the laws of the 
Buddha; and in the second place, a democratic form of 
government, at which they are supposedly aiming, would be 
inimical both to their religion and to themselves as a class. 
The Burman Buddhist believes, more strongly than anyone 
in the world, in the divine right of kings. A king is a being 
who has attained his position only after a series of existences 
well spent. Heis far advanced on the path towards Nirvana— 
a super-superman and, as such, to be obeyed without 
question. Whereas a parliament elected by the people from 
the people, and composed of men no better than the common 
run, would possess no such equivalent authority. Moreover, 
almost its first action would be directed against the pongyis, 
since priest rule and democratic government could not well 
continue to exist together. The pongyis, therefore, whether 
they realise it or not, will ultimately, if their present political 
desires ever come to fruition, bring about their own downfall. 

In the meantime, however, they are in a strong position, 
since the great majority of Burmese boys attend the schools 
conducted by the pongyis in their kyaungs, and later on assume 
the yellow robe and become, according to the universal 
custom of the country, inmates of a kyaung for some period, 

129 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


either short or long. The priests have thus an unrivalled 
opportunity for inculcating and spreading their political 
views. 

The non-co-operators have adopted the methods of the 
Indian revolutionary, Gandhi, and the boycott is their 
principal weapon. So far as it has been directed against 
British products, it has been a failure. Manchester cotton, 
the chief target, holds its own, and will continue to hold its 
own, since the native substitute is neither as good nor as 
cheap. Iwas passing one day with a friend through a native 
bazaar and stopped at a stall where cotton goods of all kinds, 
both native and imported, were exposed for sale. My 
friend said to the Burmese girl in charge, “‘ Supposing you 
wanted to make a good impression on some young man, 
would you go to him wearing a jacket of this ’—(pointing to 
a coarse, muddy-coloured native linen)—“or this ’’— 
(indicating a good quality Manchester cotton)? The girl’s 
laughter was quite sufficient answer. The boycott of the 
individual, however, is sometimes effective. 

The non-co-operators have started local courts in order to 
settle disputes for themselves. These courts are something 
like the Sinn Fein courts set up in Ireland, though, as far as 
I am aware, they do not arrogate to themselves the right of 
administering punishment as the Sinn Fein courts did; and 
inasmuch as they relieve pressure from the regular civil 
courts they serve a useful purpose and are, for the time 
being therefore, winked at by the Government. These 
courts are an offshoot of the “Wun tha nu,’ a society 

130 


Politics in Burma 


started by the pongyis ostensibly for the suppression of vice, 
but in reality quite as much for the furtherance of their 
political aspirations. It is difficult for any villager to refuse 
to join this society, since refusal involves boycott and 
practical excommunication—the latter a penalty greatly 
feared by the devout Buddhist. It will, therefore, be seen 
that the pongyis have great power—a power comparable with 
the power of the Roman Catholic priests over the Irish 
peasantry—and that asa political body they will sooner or 
later have to be reckoned with. 

Priests, of whatever religion, have much less scruple, 
it would seem, than the layman in doing evil that good may 
follow. To this broad generalisation the Buddhist priest is 
no exception. A case in point is that of the headman of a 
certain Burmese village who, believing it contrary to his 
duty as a government official to do so, had strenuously 
refused to become a member of the local “ Wun tha nu.” 
A charge, no doubt false, was then brought against him of 
appropriating money or committing some other irregularity 
in the exercise of his office. The case was tried, and on the 
evidence, which seemed complete and conclusive, he was 
suspended for six months. He thus not only lost six months 
salary, but, what was worse, his future position of authority 
in the village—as the local pongyis had calculated—was 
seriously undermined. 

One of the latest sufferers from the boycott is the 
recently-appointed Burmese Minister for Education in the 
~ new Legislative Council. Previous to his appointment he 
131 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


had been one of the most active supporters of the demands 
from a certain political section for Government aid for the 
so-called “‘ National’’ schools. The Government, however, 
could hardly be expected to support schools in which the 
doctrines of non-co-operation would be, or might be, 
disseminated, and they, of course, refused. When the 
appointment of the new minister was made, the hopes of the 
nationalists ran high. But the point of view of a malcontent 
outside and the point of view of a minister who knows the 
government position, financial as well as other, from within, 
are naturally widely separated. When the new minister, 
on first question day, was asked whether he intended to 
support the demand for government aid for the national 
schools, he found himself in a predicament, and his reply, 
“For obvious reasons impossible,’’ so incensed his late 
supporters that they boycotted him at once. Boycott 
in this case means that Burmese tradespeople are forbidden 
to supply him with goods, but it defeats its own object, 
since it merely diverts his custom to the shops and stores 
run by the British. 

As for the second division of the political section of the 
Burmese population—those who think that the time for 
independence is not yet ripe, but whose ultimate aim is 
independence—whether they are numerous or not I do not 
know. They are merely non-co-operators of a more cautious 
habit of mind. 

The third division—those who want self-government 
within the British Empire—hold views with which it is much 

132 


Politics in Burma 

easier to sympathise. Their particular grievance is the fact 
that Burma is counted as a province of India and thus comes 
under the jurisdiction of the Indian Government, whereas, 
as they rightly claim, Burma is a separate country whose 
original inhabitants have no affinity whatever with the 
people who live on the other side of the Bay of Bengal. Hla 
Tin, my Burman acquaintance at Sale, held this view. He 
also held, what is disputed by the majority of British in 
Burma, that the Burmese are capable of governing the 
country without British assistance. But he was equally 
decided upon the advantages accruing from remaining a part 
of the British Empire, and had no leanings towards complete 
separation. 

The last division—those who prefer British rule provided 
that they are allowed to share it—have now got what they 
want. In fact their part in the task of government is so large 
that it is giving rise to a great deal of uneasiness amongst 
those British officials who have been accustomed for years to 
the old régime. But it is useless for the I.C.S. official to 
complain ; he must accept things as they are, or take his 
proportionate pension and retire. The old order changeth, 
yielding place to the new—it always has done and it 
always will. At the same time, it seems a pity that 
so many good men, men who know the Burman well 
and sympathise with his problems, should be driven 
away. 

I happened to be in Rangoon when the elections for the 
first Legislative Council took place. There was little, if 


133 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


any, excitement; and the figures afterwards showed that 
only a very small proportion of the electorate had exercised 
their right to vote. In the country districts the proportion 
was even smaller ; in some cases, indeed, so small that it was 
evident that the member elected had only beaten his 
opponent because his personal friends and adherents were 
numerically stronger. No one else had troubled to go to 
the poll. 

The country Burman, though by reason of his education 
at the pongyi school he is classed as “literate,” is really 
exceedingly ignorant. It may be doubted whether he knows 
what a vote is, or what is meant by a Legislative Council. 
In fact, the rank and file of Burma are not in the least 
qualified to receive the franchise, and it will be many years 
before the Council can really be considered a representative 
body. It may be argued that, for that matter, our own 
Parliament, until proportional representation is adopted, 
cannot be so considered. This is true. It is also true that 
our system is open to the grave objection that what 
is called the “popular vote”’ includes the vote of a 
vast number of individuals who possess the minimum of 
education and the minimum of intelligence. But notwith- 
standing these, and other, drawbacks, it remains probably 
the best form of government for a Western nation such 
as ourselves. That, however, by no means proves it 
suitable for the Burmese. 

To begin with, there is the difference between the 
psychology of an Eastern and a Western people to be con- 


134 


The Upright Judge 


sidered. Few people at home realise how great this difference 
is. Yet the difference is there, and will always be there. 
It is an insurmountable barrier. The Oriental mind, to 
mention one instance, is utterly incapable of understanding 
generosity or clemency. Any attempt to meet the Oriental 
half-way is considered an exhibition of weakness and is 
immediately taken advantage of—hence one of the main 
difficulties in arriving at a settlement with the Turks 
recently. And just so long as politicians at home 
fail to realise this elementary fact, so long will Oriental 
diplomatists continue to get the better of those British 
representatives who, from a broad standpoint and with the 
best motives, are trying to arrive at a working compromise. 
The Oriental understands neither broadmindedness nor 
compromise. 

Another difference arises from the fact that to bribe is 
the Oriental’s first instinct. Without a bribe he neither 
does anything for anyone else nor expects other people 
todo anything forhim. ‘“‘ Backshish ”’ is one of the primary 
factors of his life, and bribery is a perfectly normal 
proceeding. 

A certain Burmese judge, so the story goes, was in the 
habit, before trying a case, of accepting bribes from both 
plaintiff and defendant. But he was an upright judge. 
He did not keep both bribes. Having heard the evidence 
and given an honest judgment, he returned the bribe to the 
loser, and everyone was perfectly satisfied. This is an apt 
illustration of the Oriental viewpoint, and shows very 


135 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


clearly the gulf that yawns between Eastern and Western 
mentality. 

Further illustrations of the attitude of the Burman 
towards bribery were vouchsafed me when staying, a little 
later on, with the D.S.P. of a town in Upper Burma. One 
morning as we were standing on the front verandah a Burman 
came into view walking towards the house and carrying a 
small basket. My host said, “ See that fellow? I will bet 
any money he is coming to me with some request and 
bringing a present with him. It happens over and over 
again. They will never understand that with us bribery 
counts for nothing.” 

My host was right. The basket contained offerings of 
flowers and eggs—the only things a British official is allowed 
to accept—and the present was followed in due course, as 
foretold, by some request, the import of which I have 
forgotten. 

Later in the same day, after the D.S.P. had gone to his 
office, another Burman came to the house and asked to see 
the mem-sahib. This individual had, as transpired later, 
a stall in the bazaar at which certain games of chance were 
played. The police, believing that the man was contra- 
vening the gaming act, had been instituting enquiries, and 
he had thought it politic in the circumstances to enlist the 
sympathy of the District Superintendent’s wife. Hence the 
visit. After a short interval, however, he went sadly away, 
wondering no doubt at the mem-sahib’s refusal to accept 
such a simple offering as a few roses for herself and some toys 

136 


Bribery and Corruption 


for the children, and still as incapable as ever of under- 
standing that the wife of an English D.S.P. does not take 
bribes to interfere in her husband’s official affairs. 

A further difference between East and West arises in the 
fact that the Oriental puts duty to his family before duty to 
the State. Thus the first action of a Burman who has been 
appointed to some official position is exceedingly likely to be 
the provision of minor posts which can be filled by his 
relations without regard either to their abilities or their 
experience. An Englishman, on the contrary, scruples to 
take advantage of an official position, and relations are the 
last people he chooses as his subordinates. He has an inbred 
feeling that to push relations at other people’s expense is not 
what is called “ the thing.” Itis an attitude of mind which 
the native of the East can never either appreciate or under- 
stand. But itis an attitude of mind such as this, far more 
than any material advantage his civilisation may happen to 
possess, which definitely places the Englishman on a higher 
plane than the Oriental. 

The political future of Burma, then, for reasons I have 
indicated, is uncertain. One fact alone remains clear, 
namely, that in a topsy-turvy country where toleration is a 
weakness, where generosity defeats itself, where virtues 
prove failings, where bribery is rife, and where force and 
firmness are the only arguments understood or understand- 
able, it is going to be a difficult matter to establish any 
satisfactory form of democratic self-government on liberal 
lines. Whether it can be done or not time will show. 


137 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


Those statesmen whose task it is to guide the political fortunes 
of this race have a heavy responsibility, and without a 
thorough and first-hand knowledge of the mentality of the 
Burman are in danger, however well-intentioned, of making 
a sorry failure. But with honesty of purpose, wisdom, tact, 
and an understanding of the people, they can, and no doubt 
will, win through. 


138 


CHAPTER IX 


Superstitions of the Burmese—Hla Tin in Trouble—The Library of U 
Ponnya—Sketching a Pongyi—Violent Crime—An Extraordinary 
Case—Murder—A Sidelight on Burman Psychology—With the 
Jungle Folk—Old-time Methods—-Rarity of Murder by Women. 


HE Burman from infancy onwards is steeped in 

superstition. Every child has its horoscope cast 
by an astrologer and written out on palm-leaf witha stylus. 
This is called his ‘‘ sadah.’’ He believes in “nats,” or 
spirits, and places great faith in charms. Quite recently 
some villagers, Irrawaddy fishermen, became possessed of 
certain charms against drowning. They wanted to test 
them, so they drew lots for victims to be experimented upon. 
Two men were chosen and tied together, the charms were 
placed upon them, and they were taken out into the middle 
of the river and thrown in to sink or swim as the case might 
prove. They sank. The other men were arrested and tried 
for murder, and ultimately hanged, their plea that something 
had gone wrong with the charms not standing, in British 
law, as an adequate defence. A Burmese court would have 
acquitted them, and it is by no means certain that an 
acquittal, or at worst a short sentence for manslaughter, might 
not have met the case more fairly. But however opinions 
may vary as to the justice of the sentence, the case serves to 
show the hold that these, and similar, superstitions still have 


139 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


upon the Burman, and consequently how very difficult it is 
to deal with him according to British methods. 

When I was discussing similar questions with Hla Tin, 
my Burman friend at Sale, he told me that he was then 
suffering from a series of misfortunes which had been foretold 
by his horoscope. He was forewarned, but being unaware 
what form the anticipated bad luck would take, unarmed. 
The trouble began at a “ pwe”’ (festival) in the village. 
The Burman Police Inspector, Hla Tin’s fellow official, got 
drunk and began ordering people about and threatening them 
and making a general disturbance. Hla Tin, according to 
his own story, remonstrated without effect. Then he went 
further and in his capacity as Township Officer, tried to 
arrest the Police Inspector. The Police Inspector retaliated 
by trying to arrest Hla Tin, and there was a mix-up in which 
personal feelings got the upper hand and the dignity of office 
was lost sight of. The Burmese havea keen sense of humour, 
and the situation must have greatly tickled the onlookers, 
but it was extremely unedifying from the official viewpoint, 
and when the news reached official ears Hla Tin was sent for 
by the Commissioner at Magwe to explain matters. The 
Commissioner proved sceptical about Hla Tin’s horoscope, 
and on the grounds that the dignity of the Government must 
at all costs be maintained, decided to remove him elsewhere. 
On Hla Tin’s return to Sale, he found his wife down with 
cholera and one of his children dead, thus confirming still 
further his belief in his ‘“‘ sadah,’’ but whether this terminated 
his period of ill-luck I do not know, as he left Sale to take up 

140 


Hla Tin in Trouble 


a new job elsewhere, while I left at the same time to continue 
my tour up the Irrawaddy. 

He told me further, when we were on the subject of 
beliefs and superstitions, that it is quite true, as has been 
stated, that Burmese children are occasionally found who 
remember their previous incarnation. As an illustration of 
this, he mentioned the case of a boy now living in Upper 
Burma, who says he is, and is believed to be, the reincarnation 
of a king who lived in Burma in the ninth century A.D. The 
local people are so convinced of the truth of his statement 
that a request has actually been made to the Government 
for permission to search for treasure in places pointed out by 
the boy. 

The Burmese firmly believe in the magic of numbers, 
and no Burman will start on a journey or embark on any 
important undertaking unless the day is “‘ propitious.” He 
has certain good days and certain bad days throughout the 
week, and it is considered extremely inadvisable to work on 
a bad day—hence one reason why the Burman does so little 
work. 

But to give anything resembling a complete account of 
Burmese superstitions and beliefs would take more patience, 
more knowledge, and more space than I possess. The reader 
who is interested in the subject will find Sir George Scott's 
“ The Burman, his Life and Notions,” a mine of information 
on this and all other matters connected with Burma and the 
Burmese. It covers the ground more thoroughly than any 
other book at present written. 

I4I 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


On my second day in Sale I went, by Hla Tin’s invitation, 
to the local kyaung to see the library of U Ponnya. U 
Ponnya, according to Hla Tin, is the Burmese Shakespeare, 
though his works are only now coming into the prominence 
they deserve. The library, so-called, built in 1840, is a square 
edifice of plaster and stucco with ornamental doors facing 
North, South, East and West, and surmounted with a spire 
after the style of a pagoda. It is only relieved from 
ugliness by the graceful palm trees that surround it and by 
the vegetation that grows from the cracks in the masonry. 
What U Ponnya’s poetry is like I have no means of judging, 
but his taste in architecture is not to be commended. The 
interior of the building is a vault-like chamber, dark and dusty 
and filled with miscellaneous lumber. By the light of 
candles it was possible to make out writing on the walls which 
Hla Tin regarded with as much veneration as we should 
regard, for example, a first folio copy of “‘ A Midsummer 
Night’s Dream.”” U Ponnya’s script on the walls of his 
library merely gave instructions, however, as to the arrange- 
ment of his books, and its only merit was the fact that it 
was written by the hand of the master himself. I fear I 
was hardly as thrilled as I ought to have been. 

After leaving the kyaung and U Ponnya’s library, I 
wandered alone through the village. The national pastime, 
which I prefer not to particularise with too much detail, was 
in full swing, and hands were very busy in heads. On the 
platform outside one house a very old woman crouched, 
supporting herself on a claw-like hand, while a girl— 

142 


The Library of U Ponnya 


apparently a great-granddaughter—did the usual good offices 
amongst her snow-white locks. A touching domestic 
scene ! 

In the hottest part of the day I retired to the shelter of 
the dak bungalow, a large building on the top of a hill 
surrounded with pagodas and commanding a fine view of 
the river. It was built on posts in the usual style and 
the walls were of matting made of split bamboo woven into 
a twill pattern. It contained the usual furniture and 
necessaries, and punkahs for use in the hot weather. Cooking- 
pots were available and my boy was able to serve me with 
meals to which Hla Tin contributed a welcome gift of fish. 
It did not occur to me at the time, though in the light of 
later knowledge it seems probable, that this present of fish 
may not have been an entirely disinterested one. Hla Tin 
was aware that I knew the Commissioner at Magwe, and 
was about to meet him again! In spite of the fact that they 
come from fresh water, the Irrawaddy fish are most excellent 
eating. They are quite as good as any fish that ever came 
out of the sea, and one of the best foods obtainable in Burma. 
I was astonished to find people in Rangoon paying huge 
prices for miserable little British kippers when most delicious 
fresh fish could be had almost for nothing. The kipper, 
however, is a rarity, and smacks, in the nostrils of the exile, 
like bacon and eggs and porridge and marmalade and 
sausages, of home ; hence, I suppose, its popularity. 

On the evening of my second day at Sale, as I was strolling 
on the hilltop at sunset, I met an old pongyi walking slowly 


143 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


along with the aid of a bamboo stick. He stopped and 
pointed with a frown at the sketch-book I was carrying. I 
thought for the moment that he must be a non-co-operator, 
that he hated me as an Englishman, and that he resented 
my intrusion with a sketchbook on what was perhaps holy 
ground. But I was wrong. The frown meant nothing. 
‘The old fellow was perfectly harmless and merely wanted to 


jy a an : = a Sat a y, het; 





ON THE IRRAWADDY. 


look at my sketches. (I never found the Burmese shy about 
making this particular request. It was really a wonder 
that my sketchbook survived the constant thumbings it 
received.) That morning, as it happened, I had made a 
drawing of the old singer of a thousand songs. The pongyi 
soon came across it. He exclaimed “‘Saya Tu!” and 
immediately indicated his desire to be drawn also. The 
light was rapidly going, but to humour him I did my best. 
When I showed him the result his delight was unbounded. 


144 


Sketching a Pongyi 


He was like a pleased child. Some villagers who happened 
to be passing had to come and admire, also the ‘‘ durwan ”’ 
and his family from the dak bungalow. And in between 
times he stared and stared and stared at his own rough 
presentment asif he had never seen anything so fine. Finally 
he wanted me to come to the pongyi kyaung and draw all 
the other pongyis, but this was an honour I had to decline. 
I thanked him, through my boy Valu, who had just then 
come out from the bungalow, and we parted with mutual 
goodwill. 

Later the same evening, when I was wandering along the 
foreshore in the moonlight I heard a commotion in the 
village behind. Curious to know what it might mean, I went 
in the direction of the noise, and presently found a crowd of 
people round a bullock-cart. In the cart was the body of a 
man whose head had been cut open with a dah in a drunken 
brawl. He was dead. So before I had been in Burma 
a month I had twice had ocular proof of the prevalence of 
murder. 

Murders are not uncommonly the result of drink, which 
in Burma, as in other countries, has much to answer for. 
Two men get excited and quarrel, and one hits the other 
with his dah, probably without murderous intent, and the 
blow proves fatal, as a blow from such a formidable weapon 
must often do. 

During 1921 there were 683 cases of murder and attempted 
murder. This is a high figure in a population of ten anda 
half millions, and is very much higher than in any other 

145 


10 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


part of the Indian Empire. The Police Reports give 
interesting, though depressing, details and show that crime of 
every sort, not only murder, has increased under British 
rule, and is still increasing. The non-co-operators here have 
an argument which is somewhat difficult to answer. This 
increase is accounted for in various ways. The D.C. of 
Myaungmya, in the course of a statement on the matter, 
makes certain remarks which seem to me pertinent. He 
says: 

The fault in Burma is that the Burmans lack discipline and 
self-restraint in all directions. This may be seen in its records in 
the military and police departments—the unwillingness of the 
Burmans to enlist in disciplined forces, the abnormal proportion of 
desertions and offences against discipline after enlistment, the 
fondness for gambling, racing, pwes and such excitements. 

Again, note the deterioration of a considerable section of the 
Burmese priesthood. . . . Many of the priesthood occupy the 


jails, whereas fifteen years ago none dare even appear in a Civil 
Court, and the priesthood was a model to that of all nationalities. 


As against the chetty and European the Burman fails in under- 
standing the finance and power of organisation, and cannot build 
up a big business. . . . The foreigner accumulates fortunes 
whilst he (the Burman) gets poorer in his own land, though it flows 
with milk and honey. All this contributes to a sense of resentment 
and dissatisfaction, and a growing need for more money. 


The Commissioner of Magwe writes : 


Another of the keynotes is the undeniable deterioration in the 
character of the people. Premeditated crime is increasing and 
indiscipline is growing. The decay of the wholesome influences of 
the past, the influence of parents and elders, the influence of headmen, » 
the influence of pongyis, the influence of government officers, have 
helped to cause this deterioration of character. ‘ 


146 


An Extraordinary Case 


Other reasons for the increase of crime are advanced by 
various officials, and many suggestions are made with a 
view to correcting a state of affairs which reflects so gravely 
upon the British administration of Burma. But not one of 
them gets down to the root of the matter. No one doubts 
that the officials are zealous, earnest men. They are not to 
blame. The departmental administration is not to blame. 
It is the system itself which is at fault—the attempt to 
apply Western methods to an Eastern people. Western 
civilisation comes to Burma, and we find “ decay of the 
wholesome influences of the past,’’ “‘ deterioration of the 
Burmese character,’’ and “‘a growing need for more money.” 
And here, I believe, in the last sentence, we have the whole 
cause of the trouble summed up in half-a-dozen words. ‘“‘ The 
growing need for more money.” It is this worship of money 
for its own sake—the cornerstone of modern material 
civilisation !—which is ruining Burma, making a criminal 
class, and destroying the happiness of aonce contented people. 
The Burman, it seems, must, like the foreigner, make money 
his god or go to the wall. Can one wonder, therefore, that a 
large section of the Burman population wish to drive the 
foreigner out of the country ? 

The Police Administration Reports are full of interesting, 
if rather sensational, stories. The 1921 Report includes the 
following : 

A somewhat extraordinary case is reported from the Toungoo 
District. In the estate known as the Zeyawaddi Grant during recent 


years two factions have been formed among the tenants with regard 
to the payment of rent. The story reported to the police by the 


147 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


complainant was that his wife rose during the night and left the 
house to visit the latrine. He followed her and when they were just 
outside the house they were seized by a number of men who bound 
them and took them to a neighbouring temple. Here the com- 
plainant’s wife was placed on one side of the temple, the complainant 
being placed on the other. After the recitation of various prayers 
the complainant stated that his wife was decapitated by one of their 
captors with one stroke of a dah. He himself was rendered un- 
conscious by a blowover the neckwith a dah. He stated that hewas 
unconscious until daybreak next morning, when he saw that his wife 
had been murdered. Some of her jewellery was missing and his house 
was burnt down. The deceased was found at the temple with her 
head almost decapitated. The-only injuries which the complainant 
could show were eight parallel lines running transversely across 
the throat one-eighth of an inch apart. These were held by the 
medical authorities to be self-inflicted. A longand careful investiga- 
tion was held, both by the District Police and the Criminal Investiga- 
tion Department, but the mystery remained unsolved. It was 
practically established that the woman had been murdered in her 
husband’s house, which thereafter had been burnt down to destroy 
any incriminating evidence. The corpse was then placed in the 
temple and charges of murder were brought against the members of 
the faction opposed to that supported by the complainant. Whether 
the deceased was murdered for other motives and was then used to 
get the enemies of the complainant into trouble, or whether the 
murder was an act of human sacrifice, has not been established. 


A bad case of murder happened in Thindawgyi Village, near 
Kawkadut in the Thatén District. The case arose out of a previous 
case of abduction and rape. A youth took a fancy to an adopted 
daughter of a man in Thindawgyi village. This adopted daughter 
was really the household drudge ; hence the old man and his sons 
did not want to lose her. Maung Hpyu, her suitor, then abducted 
her and had his way with the maid until the family, whose chattel 
she was, turned out in force and rescued her. This was the second 
time they had got her back from her lover. They pressed a case of 
abduction and rape against her lover and his friends; but the case 
failed in Court. The lover, however, was persistent and the Court 


148 


=" ~~ 


Murder 


had no sooner released him than he again appeared at her house and 
demanded her. His brother and a friend backed him up, but the 
home forces routed them and chased them out of the house. Two 
of them followed up Maung Hpyi and murdered him with a large 
number of people watching them. The police were quickly on the 
scene and ample evidence was on record before the wealth of the 
family concerned could be brought into play. On this ample evidence 
of several eye witnesses the two accused were sent up for trial. The 
Law’s tardiness, however, gave the family purse time to talk and in 
the committal court each witness in turn smilingly went back on her 
statement. The Sub-Divisional Magistrate, Kyaikto, committed 
the case, but after consultation with the Government Prosecutor 
the case had to be withdrawn. The seven resiling witnesses are being 
prosecuted. A local pongyi is alleged to have been very active in 
destroying the evidence in this case. 


An unfortunate affair happened in a robbery case at Yandoon. 
The victim ran out of the house, and his son who lived close by, 
hearing the disturbance, rushed up, and mistaking his father for a 
robber, attacked him with a dah, almost severing his head. 


A brutal murder was committed in Mergui, where a man, losing 
his temper over a trivial matter with his daughter, cut down his wife 
with a dah and murdered his sixteen days’ old baby. The man 
finally committed suicide by hanging himself in the jungle. 


But for poignant tragedy compressed into three lines 
nothing will easily beat the following terse entry : 


In Pakokku a man was compelled to divorce his wife as she was 
suffering from leprosy. One day both of them went to the jungle, 
where the man murdered his wife and then committed suicide by 
hanging. 


In the Pantanaw Town of the Ma-ubin District a man ran 
amok, and after assaulting a number of people with a dah, murdered 
a friend and his wife in particularly brutal fashion. A Sub-Inspector 
of Police, who happened to be on the spot, finally succeeded in 
shooting him. It is reported that a crowd of 7oo persons had 


149 


Peacocks and Pagodas | 


collected and was calmly watching the proceedings and made no 
appreciable efforts to overpower the murderer. 


This last entry exhibits a curious trait of Burman 
psychology. The Burman, either from apathy or a disregard 
of the value of human life, can calmly watch a man being 
done to death without making any attempt whatever to save 
or protect him. It looks at first sight like cowardice, but 
probably cowardice has little or nothing to do with it. In 
this connection an extract from a book called “‘ With the 
Jungle Folk,” by E. D. Cuming, is worth quoting. This book, 
which is now out of print, throws much interesting light on 
the habits and mentality of the Burman, and, though 
fiction, is fiction founded on a close and accurate observation 
of Burmese village life. The extract in question concerns 
an incident which is supposed to happen at the end of the 
voyage of a paddy-boat. The boat has arrived near the rice 
mill, where her cargo is to be unloaded. 

Round the last gentle curve in the river, and the mills with 
smoking chimneys, the ships waiting for rice, and the pagoda which 
overlooks the town, all came in sight together. ‘‘In another betel 
chew we are there,’’ remarked Moung Byoo, contentedly. “It is 
the quickest journey I remember.”’ 

They ran past two or three godowns, before he said, pointing 
with his cheroot, ‘‘ Thaw’ thekin’s,’’ and gave the word to let down 
the mast. The tide was just on the turn now, so the men waited 
till the boat was abreast of the godown and half astone’s throw from 
the bank, before they let fall mast and sail together. The sail flapped 
and bubbled, and it was while they were trying to keep it from 
blowing over the side, that the accident happened to Hpo Chit. 


Nobody saw exactly how it came about, but there was a cry 
a bump, and asplash, and Hpo Chit’s feet were seen disappearing into 


150 





PADDY BOATS. 


I51 


hs ‘ \ ‘ 
; oe aren eG j 
wie ante sy Wi x 


RTA adh Sy, UAL 
eh Wa, 


be 


t 4h 
: ey 


Rem ERIS ERY 





With the Jungle Folk 


the water. Hecame up at once, a bamboo’s length astern, but went 
down again. Then everyone, saying ‘‘ He is hurt; he will drown,”’ 
squatted to watch. 

“T think he struck his head falling,’ said Moung Byoo, leaning 
from the steering chair to look round the high stern-piece. ‘“ He 
will certainly drown. His mother will be very sorry.” 

The black kullahs on the bank shouted and ran to the water’s 
edge when they saw the accident, and their voices brought from the 
godown a white man in white clothes with a little ship-dog at his heels. 
He smoked a cheroot, and strolled out with his hands behind him ; 
but when he heard what the coolies were saying he dropped his 
cheroot and ran out upon the jetty where the ships lay to load, shouting 
to Moung Byoo’s men. 

“Back! back your boat quickly ; very quickly back her! ”’ 

“ That is Thaw’ thekin,”’ said Moung Byoo, shikoing. 

“What does he say ?’”’ asked Mah Heyn. 

“He says to row back. What is the use? Hpo Chit will 
certainly drown.” 

Mr. Thorpe seemed very angry about something. He stamped 
with his foot and roared, “‘ Back her, you fools! Back three strokes 
hard, and you save him! Back! Will you ?”’ 

“Row back a little,’’ said Moung Byoo, slowly. ‘“ It is Thaw’ 
thekin’s order.” 

The men got up and freed two oars, but both on the same side; 
all laughed at this mistake, and Pho Lone, ever anxious to please, 
went to make ready one on the other thwart. 

“One oar, your honour?” he asked, crouching respectfully, 
‘Or more ? ”’ 

Mr. Thorpe did not answer ; he spun round on his heel, ran back, 
and sprang from the jetty on to the stone-strewn bank, and in three 
steps was in the river, his dog behind him. 

“Why does he swim ? ” inquired Man Pan. 

“TI expect he swims to catch Hpo Chit,’ answered Moung Byoo, 
sucking at his cheroot which had nearly gone out. 

Seeing what the gentleman did, the rowers let go their oars 
and squatted again to look on. 


153 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


‘““ Where is he?” shouted Mr. Thorpe, swimming hard, hand 
over hand down stream. 

“TI cannot see him now, your honour,” replied Moung Byoo, 
“T think he has sunk.” 

Mr. Thorpe stopped swimming and trod water for several 
minutes to look about, letting the tide carry him down. Then he 
turned, swam slowly ashore, and dripped up the bank. 

“He does look very funny,’ said Zah Nee. ‘‘ And hear the water 
in his boots! How the little ship-dog shakes himself! ”’ 


as meee 


\) 
— —— — ‘ a ‘ 
PSS a 
sf a j 
see 7 
Aes 
nS eee 


BOATS ON THE IRRAWADDY. 





The men laughed much at the way Mr. Thorpe’s skin showed 
through his wet clothes; but they laughed quietly, for they had 
dropped down to within the gentleman’s hearing, and they did not 
wish to appear rude. 

‘““Hpo Chit’s father and mother will be very sorry when they 
hear heis drowned. Itis very unfortunate indeed. Pull away there ! 
We must go alongside the godown. I am very sorry about Hpo 
Chit,” 


154 


Old Time Methods 


Before finally leaving the subject of crime in Burma it 
may be worth while to hark back to the time when Burma 
was a separate country ruled by an absolute monarch. 
Justice was rough and ready in those days, and punishment 
summary. The offender had little chance of escaping the 
consequences of his act, and according to the Captain of the 
“ Nepaul,”’ whose experience of the country dates back to 
pre-British Times, it was no uncommon sight to see the 
bodies of criminals floating down the river crucified on 
pieces of bamboo. To-day, with our notions of fair-play for 
every accused person, it only too frequently happens that 
although there is no real doubt as to the culprit, he 
escapes either on some point of law, or with the help 
of well-paid false swearing, as in one of the cases quoted 
above from the Police Report. This makes it more and 
more difficult to obtain evidence, since, if the charge 
breaks down, the accused man will, in all likelihood, 
make it exceedingly unpleasant for the witnesses who gave 
evidence against him. 

It is therefore conceivable that the old Burmese system, 
even though it might occasionally happen that an innocent 
person had to suffer, was better suited to the country than our 
present system with its clemency and consequent loop-holes 
for the criminal. Certainly it was a greater deterrent in the 
case of premeditated violent crimes, a class of crime now more 
prevalent than formerly. Nowadays if a man has a grudge 
against another man he does not hesitate to go to his house 
in the night and stab him, as he sleeps, either through the 


155 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


flooring, or through the matting wall of his house. It is 
easy and safe. 

A less serious offence, more comic than tragic, may be 
carried out in the same way, as the following story shows : 

A young Burman had made advances to a certain girl, 
only to be repulsed with scorn and ignominy. In revenge, 
having found out the exact spot on the flooring where it 
was the lady’s custom to sleep, he went in the night and 
prodded her through the floor with a stick in all the tender 
places he could find. The lady’s outraged feelings could 
only be soothed by an action in the police court, and in the 
end the embittered lover had to pay damages. He may 
have felt that it was worth it—but on this point history does 
not enlighten us. 

A further point worth noting is the rarity in Burma of 
murder by women. In India there are frequent cases. 
This difference is accountable to the marriage laws. In 
India the woman has no choice when it comes to matrimony ; 
She seldom sees her bridegroom until the wedding day ; 
hence domestic friction and a long list of poisoning cases in 
which the offender is the wife and the victim the husband. 
In Burma the woman has entire freedom of choice and the 
marital relations of the Burmese are, in consequence, seldom 
unhappy. 


156 


CHAPTER X 


At Nyoungoo—Making Lacquer-work—The Assistant Goal-keeper—The 
Ferry-Boat—-At Myingyan—The Golden City—In the Second Defile— 
A Monkey Story—Bhamo at Night. 


\ X YHILE at Sale I received a message from the Com- 

missioner at Magwe to say that he was on his way 
up river in his launch and could, if I wished, call for me and 
take me on with him as faras Mandalay. I therefore waited 
and availed myself of this kind offer, though as I wanted to 
visit Pagan I got him to put me ashore at Nyoung-oo instead 
of accompanying him the whole distance. In my diary 
I find : 


“At 4.30 the Commissioner’s launch put me ashore. It 
was too shallow for the “ Bandit’ to go right in, so I was 
rowed offina boat. Even then I had a job to get to land dry- 
shod, but the men put the oars together and made a rickety 
gangway along which I crept gingerly, supported by Burmans 
wading on each side. Coolies tucked up their lungyis, 
waded out to the boat, and carted away my luggage on their 
heads to the dak bungalow, a gloomy spider-haunted 
building on the river bank surrounded by tamarind trees 
and a wire fence. Here with the help of Valu I made myself 
as comfortable as I could. It was about sunset and the 
scene along the foreshore was delightful. 


157 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


‘‘A bamboo and palm-leaf hut stood under a banyan, 
quite dwarfed by the enormous bulk of the trunk. A little 
further along was a row of similar huts erected in the loose 
sand. Women squatted on the ground cooking the evening 
meal over little fires. A few bedraggled fowls wandered in 
and out, and a party of merry naked children romped and 
played inthe sand. At the edge of the water lay a row of big 
country boats at anchor, with their double bamboo masts 
lowered and the openwork carving on their high sterns clear 
against the glowing light. “Two Burmans were repairing an 
overturned boat further up the bank, and just beyond them 
the stems of a group of palms stood out black from the red 
sky. In the other direction a sandstone cliff topped by a 
pagoda towered above the water. Beyond it the Irrawaddy 
stretched far away to the North West and the distant Chin 
Hills. 

‘In the morning I explored Nyoung-oo and found plenty 
to interest me, but nothing particularly worth recording. 
I had some idea of going over to Pagan, four or five miles 
away, but finally decided to postpone this until the next day 
and make an early start. I asked about transport and was 
offered a bullock-cart. But the bullock-cart is a slow 
affair—the trip there would have taken two hours—and I 
said I must havea pony-cart. In the end one was found and 
ordered to come to the bungalow at eight o’clock the next 
day. Iwas rather sorry afterwards that I had not accepted 
the original offer. The pony proved to be a half-starved, 
miserable looking little beast, and had I known the state of 

158 








Making Lacquer-work 


the road we had to travel I should have hesitated before 
trusting to it. However, with tea-basket, sketch-books and 
stool, and Valu sharing the driver’s seat in front, we started 
off for Pagan. I walked a good deal of the way, partly for 
exercise and partly to save the unfortunate pony, and 
eventually we arrived, in spite of heavy going through loose 
sand which taxed the pony’s strength to the uttermost. We 
ought to have had the bullocks. They forge slowly ahead 
inexorably as fate through anything and everything, and if 
they are slow at least they are sure. At the Circuit House 
(a sort of glorified dak bungalow) I found the D.C. from 
Myingyan, who had been helping to entertain a Siamese 
prince and princess who are on tour through Burma. He 
said I ought to have come over the previous day, as I should 
have then seen a ‘pwe’ with dancing girls, and also the 
snake charmers from Mount Popa with their hamadryads. 
I was awfully vexed that I had missed them. He and his 
wife gave me breakfast, and then I took my sketchbook and 
started to draw some of Pagan’s five thousand pagodas. 
I also found time to visit the village and see the 
manufacture of lacquer for which Pagan is famous. The 
establishment I patronised had the following notice stuck 


up outside : 
SAYA SEIN, 


General Lacqure shop. If wish 
of lacqure furniture I can 
supplies everything. 


Who could resist this? The Siamese prince had been there 
1601 
11 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


the previous day and all the most precious specimens of 
jacquer work had been set out for his inspection. But 
they failed to tempt him and, much to the disappointment 
of the exhibitors, his total purchases only reached the 
insignificant total of twenty-five rupees. The original 
Burmese lacquer-work is coloured a crude red and a sort of 
bluish-green—not, in my opinion, a pleasing combination. 
I therefore contented myself with acquiring some examples 
of the more modern black and gold, and had my purchases 
packed in a strong box and sent down to Rangoon. It 
was interesting to see the work in its various stages, but it 
would be tedious to describe it. The basis is fine basket 
work of thin strips of bamboo, and the lacquer is made of 
gum from some tree mixed with cow-dung. | 

“Our return journey was even slower than our journey 
out. I walked most of the way. In the end the pony got 
stuck in a bed of loose sand and refused to budge an inch 
further. The poor beast was absolutely done. We left it 
and the driver there and walked on until overtaken by 
another cart which made room for us and brought us into 
Nyoung-oo just as it was getting dark. 

“While I was in Nyoung-oo I paid a visit to the local 
gaol. I had been accosted by a young Burman who was 
riding a particularly good little pony, but as I knew no 
Burmese I didn’t grasp what he wanted. He dismounted and 
shook me by the hand, by which I took him to mean that his 
intentions were friendly. He then motioned to me to wait, 
and fetched another young man froma house nearby. The 

162 





PAGODAS. 


163 


an gre Mae ie 

























lide 


el, 
aay 
pis 





‘i Z 
e Pacer i 
1d bea? oe 























The Assistant Goal-keeper 


second man, in English, told me that he was the ‘ assistant 
goal keeper.’ As I once took a course in Pelmanism it was 
easy for me to unravel the apparent mystery. The Burmese 
don’t play football, and this, coupled with the fact that he 
was wearing a long khaki uniform coat from beneath which 
a pink silk lungyi protruded incongruously, caused me to 
surmise, as proved correct, that he meant he was the assistant 
gaoler. Hethen asked meif I should like to see the * goal.’ 
So I went. It was just after sunset and the prisoners had 
gone to bed—if you can call lying down on the floor on a mat 
going to bed. They were inside a sort of large wooden build- 
ing like a cage. All wore irons. There were 104 prisoners 
serving sentences up to five years—all lepers. The gaoler 
said they had no serious objection to being in there ; in fact, 
most of them were glad to be housed and, for them, well and 
sufficiently fed. So again the British system appears to 
fail as a deterrent. During the day the prisoners work in 
gangs making roads or doing agricultural labour. There is 
a large garden attached to the prison. 

“‘T had decided to go on by the ferry-boat the day after 
my visit to Pagan and its numerous pagodas (Pagan, by 
the way, is the most interesting place archeologically in 
Burma and the pagodas are of all types and date back to the 
tenth century, the early ones of course being now in ruins), 
so next morning I walked on about a mile above Nyoung-oo 
to where the ferry-boat stops. Valu followed with my kit 
in a bullock-cart. The road went for some distance through 
a deep cutting in the sandy limestone and then emerged on 

165 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


the river bank, where I found a crowd of Burmese busy 
cooking dainties to sell to the passengers on the ferry-boat. 
It was an animated scene. On the bank at the back stood 
a few hutsin which earthenware ‘ chatties’ were being made. 
Rows of the chatties stood baking in the sun. And on the 
top of a cliff at the Southern end of the beach was a ruined 
pagoda of warm brown-red brick. The old pagodas are much 
prettier than the newer ones. Thestucco and concrete have 
mostly fallen off and there is a pleasant absence of the 
white paint and gold leaf that make the modern pagodas so 
staring and ugly. 

“ The ferry-boat is an uncertain quantity. Iwas told that 
it might arrive at ten o’clock, or it might not turn up until 
twelve. On this occasion it came at half-past eleven, by 
which time I was rather tired of waiting in the hot sun. I 
found the D.C. and his wife on the boat and travelled with 
them as far as Myingyan. They had previously telegraphed 
to the wife of the D.S.P. there (whom I had met on the 
Amarapoora) to say that they were bringing me to dinner that 
evening. I was asleep in my cabin when the boat reached 
Myingyan, and when I realised that we had arrived, my 
friends had disappeared, the arrangement being that they 
were to go on and dress while I was to make my way to the 
D.S.P.’s independently of them. I got into evening kit, 
and having given Valu instructions to take all my belongings 
on board the Mandalay ferry which was leaving early the next 
morning, | went ashore. It was quitedark. I found myself 
confronted by a high bank of loose sand. I scrambled to 

166 


At Myingyan 


the top, where there were crowds of chattering Burmese, a 
few stalls and booths, anda good many bullock-carts waiting 
for fares or freight. A young Burman policeman accosted 
me and in broken English conveyed to me that he had been 
told off as my guide. He put me into a bullock-cart, which 
started off across a wilderness of sand. The river is very 
low at this season. After half a mile or so of this we reached 
the town and plodded along through streets of the familiar 
type, feebly illuminated by oil lamps at wide intervals apart. 
Three-quarters of an hour’s uncomfortable ride landed me at 
my destination. I have never before arrived at a dinner- 
party in evening dress in a bullock-cart. 

“At about midnight the D.C. drove me back in his motor 
as far as the edge of the sand. I was then told that I had 
only to bear to the left and keep in the bullock-cart tracks 
and I should see the lights of the Mandalay steamer ahead. 
‘You can’t possibly miss it,’ were the D.C.’s last words as 
he drove away. But it was all very well to say ‘ keep to the 
bullock track’! The sand was ali tracks, and they seemed 
to run in every direction. I started off across the desert 
full of misgivings. It seemed on the cards that I should 
wander about for hours trying to locate the steamer. Then 
I saw a light behind me and found it came from a lantern 
carried by a Burman. I said ‘ Mandalay steamer,’ and the 
Burman appeared to understand and motioned to me to 
follow him. He was accompanied by a boy. We trudged 
on for some time through the sand, and then the Burman 
left me in charge of the boy, who eventually brought me to 

167 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


the steamer. Owing to the high bank no lights were visible. 
Also the boat was moored the other side of two big floats, 
or “‘ flats ’ as they call them here, both of which were loaded 
up with bales and sacks and ali sorts of freight, and both in 
complete darkness. Without the boy and his lantern I 
should never have arrived. I sent him away with a parting 
present of eight annas, with which he seemed quite pleased. 
I never grudged backshish less. 

“We reached Mandalay at four o’clock the next afternoon. 
I had arranged to look up the “ Bandit’ on my arrival, so, 
leaving my kit on board the ferry steamer, I set out along the 
riverside to find her. The Commissioner and his wife had 
arrived that morning and were having tea when I discovered 
them. On their invitation I sent along for my kit and took up 
my residence on theirlaunch. It was lucky for me they were 
so hospitable, as I found afterwards that every place in 
Mandalay was full and there was absolutely no accommodation 
to be had. Everyone who could had come there for the 
Christmas festivities. 

‘““Mandalay is called ‘the golden city.’ But there was 
not much gold about it so faras I could see. It appeared to 
be a straggling town of squalid streets with shops built of 
stucco painted white and crudely ornamented in blue and 
‘red. In between the stucco buildings are tumble-down 
wooden buildings roofed with corrugated iron. The roads 
are inches deep in dust and littered with rubbish. The 
arrangement of the town is rectangular, with streets numbered 
in the American style. It was laid out by the British after 

168 


The Golden City 


they had destroyed the old city that stood inside the walls 
of the great fort. The whole place seemed to breathe a sort 
of squalid commercialism that made it most unattractive. 
But I am told that it is in reality a most interesting town and 
I intend to make a longer stay there on my way back. I paid 
a visit to the shop of a maker of musical instruments who had 
previously been warned of my arrival and told to try to get 
mea Burmese harp.. I found hima very amiable old Burman. 
He had secured a harp which he said was fifty years old and 
had belonged to the husband of a very famous Burmese 
singer. This lady had an exceptionally high voice and no 
other harp would stand the strain of being tuned up to 
her pitch. The harp was small and of rather a quaint shape. 
It had thirteen strings and I was told that there are three 
different ways of tuning it, including the pentatonic, which 
I suspect was the original method. The tone was light, but 
very pretty. On the whole the first real musical instrument 
I have come across in Burma. The shop was an untidy 
litter of drums, gongs, and other instruments in various 
stages of construction ; and two old women, both smoking 
enormous cheroots, squatted in the doorway that led to the 
living-room at the back. 

“AsI write I am on my way upriver on one of the mail 
steamers. Wooded hills run down to the water on either side, 
and there are occasional ‘glimpses of mountains farther off. 
Quite different scenery from that of the lower reaches, but 
equally picturesque. This morning, a beautiful morning of 
grey and silver, we stopped at a village to take on wood 

169 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


fuel. The captain took me for a walk in the jungle, which, 
he asserted, is full of game—snipe, duck, jungle-fowl and 
other birds, besides tiger, leopard, panther and bear. I 
saw nothing but two or three wood-pigeons and a squirrel ! 
But it was very beautiful with the early sun shining through 
the leaves, and the dewdrops sparkling everywhere. 


it 


‘ ANAEMIA 





SANDBANKS. 


“December 24th, Bhamo. 


I have arrived as far north as the Irrawaddy Flotilla Co. 
can take me. We tied up last night at Katha, and left there 
at about eight this morning. Atsunrise there wasa thick fog, 
which delayed us, as navigation of the Irrawaddy is almost 
impossible in foggy weather. But the sun soon drove the 
mist away, and when I went on deck nothing was left of it 
but a rolling bank of cloud hanging about the mountains to 
the West. A glorious morning and the river a sheet of glass. 
During breakfast we were called out by the captain to see 

170 


In the Second Defile 


a wild elephant on the bank. No more of particular 
interest until we entered that part of the river known as the 
“second defile.’ Here the river narrows to 150 yards or 
so, and in the rains comes rushing through in a mighty current. 
Rocks covered with forest run down to the water very 
steeply on either side, and a cliff goo ft. high with a sheer drop 
into the river is the outstanding feature. The political 
prisoners in the old days used to be thrown down from the 
top of this cliff into the Irrawaddy below. A miniature 
pagoda built on a rock at the base commemorates 
the miraculous escape of a certain prince who was thrown 
by his enemies from the cliff, but was saved by a large fish 
which rose from the water and caught him gently on its back 
and so broke his fall! A little way beyond this point we saw 
a party of monkeys playing on the beach. When they heard 
the steamer coming they scrambled up the bank and ran to 
safety amongst the tree-tops. A larger monkey is found 
further inland, a black one, presumably a gibbon. I 
have it on the captain’s authority that the black monkey 
is so kind-hearted that if you sit under a tree and pretend to 
be overcome with grief, it will cautiously approach you, sniff 
round you, and at last, if you keep up the pretence of 
sobbing bitterly, put its arm round you to comfort you. 
The captain didn’t add, as I half expected, that it then 
proceeded to wipe your eyes with its own pocket handker- 
chief. With all humility I suggest this as an improvement. 

“On leaving the defile a range of mountains became 
visible to the East—the mountains of China. But the new 

171 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


types on the after-deck, some of whom I have been trying to 
sketch, have already quite sufficiently shown our proximity 
to the Celestial country. The Shan Tayoks in their high 
black hats or turbans are noticeably picturesque. These 
people inhabit the northern part of the Shan States on the 





SHAN TAYOKS. 


Chinese border. Their curious headgear fits tight on the 

head and widens out towards the top and is at least nine or 

ten inches in height. Soon after sunset I walked through 

the crowd aft and saw two of these little women in bed. 

They were lying side by side on their backs under a carefully 
172 


Bhamo at Night 


spread blanket, everthing about them neatly arranged and 
their tall hats standing behind them on their respective 
pillows. Very quaint and prim they looked. There were 
also some true Chinese aboard, the women in tight-fitting 
trousers and long tunics and with feet so cramped and tiny 
that they could only hobble about with the greatest difficulty. 
Some of them had babies slung at their backs. They had 
a Stall in full swing with all sorts of things for sale, from 
baskets of Shan oranges to Manchester cotton. 

“Shortly before sunset we saw some more elephants, but 
this time of the domestic variety, coming down to the river 
for a drink. And on the opposite bank a peacock appeared, 
whereupon the chief engineer got his rifle and had a couple 
of shots without result. If he had hit the bird, he explained, 
the steamer would have stopped while he went in a boat and 
retrieved it. Travelling on the Irrawaddy is a leisurely 
matter and a half-hour either way is of no great consequence. 

“We reached Bhamo after dark. I went ashore for a 
walk and found an interesting street full of open Chinese 
shops with perpendicular notices outside, each in Chinese 
characters. Oil lamps and open fires in braziers shed an 
uncertain light, and the effect was Rembrandtesque. 
In one shop I found a crowd of people sitting round trays 
eating rice, while at the back, on a bed draped with pink 
and white hangings, lay the corpse of a young girl. She looked 
so pretty laid out, all dressed in her best, with flowers in her 
hair. There were no apparent signs of mourning. 
Plague, I ascertained, was the cause of death.” 


173 


CHAPTER XI 


Christmas Day—Shan Workmen—A Cold Night—Through the Jungle— 
A Kachin Village—About the Kachins—Morality, Courtship and 
Marriage—Kachin Folk-lore—The Wild Kachin. 


My diary continued : 

“Christmas Day. It is hard to 
realise it. The morning started with 
white fog and when I went ashore it 
was still hanging about. Everything 
looked charming. The giant treesand 
the bamboo clumps, the rickety houses 
on poles, the picturesque figures of 
Burmese, Shans and Chinese, and the 
road, with its slow-moving builock- 
waggons and pack-mules, fading away 
into the mist. Bhamo is everything 
that I expected, and more. It is the most fascinating place 
that my wandering steps have brought me to. The Chinese 
street down which I strolled last night was even more inter- 
esting by daylight. The poor little dead girl in all her finery 
still lay on the gaily-decked bed at the back of the shop. 
Her brothers and sisters were playing in the gutter as usual 
and the rest of the family were unconcernedly taking their 
morning meal. Gharries drove down the street with much 


174 





A SHAN BOY. 


Christmas Day 


clanging of gongs and shouting of ‘He! He!’ Groups ot 
people warmed themselves round fires. Chinese women, 
with their babies slung behind them, hobbled across the 
road to exchange gossip with the neighbour opposite. Hefty 
coolie men with heavy loads at each end of a bamboo pole 
swung along in the direction of the steamer landing. Pi-dogs 
curled themselves up for warmth in the ashes of abandoned 
fires, or snarled from a safe distance at any passing European. 
At one shop a group of queer little Kachin girls, with black 
bobbed hair, black eyes and snub noses, were disputing 
prices with an old Chinese shopkeeper, while at another a 
couple of Shan Tayoks, dressed in black and dark blue, 
wagged their tall head-gear over some bargain. Commerce 
was in full swing. 

“T had sent Valu on with my kit to the Circuit House and 
there I found him when I arrived. The durwan supplied 
meals, so at ten o’clock I had breakfast. After breakfast 
two Kachins,a man and a girl, came for me to draw. They 
had been sent by a Burman I met the previous evening on the 
boat. It is usually difficult to persuade a Kachin girl to 
allow herself to be drawn or photographed. But this girl 
seemed to have no particular objection, though she seemed 
shy at first. She was pretty in a barbaric way. Her black 
hair curled round her face and neck. She wore a kind of 
tunic, black with a red edging, and ornamented with rows of 
silver bosses. Her skirt was of some heavy material covered 
with embroidery in red and orange with a fringe of little 
tassels. She was bare-footed, but what was visible of her 


175 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


legs was clad in a sort of cloth gaiter of the same material as 
the skirt. The principle feature of her costume, however, 
was a girdle made of innumerable rings of thick wire enamelled 
black with a few rings of brass among them. Strings of 
beads encircled her neck, and on one wrist, she wore a heavy 
silver bangle or bracelet about three inches wide. She was 
short and rather stumpy in figure, quite a different build from 
a Burmese woman, and from the twinkle in her eye I should 
guess that she had a fair spice of devil in her. The man 
seemed tall in comparison. He was very grandly dressed 
in a black silk coat and wide trousers of white linen. A 
coloured belt round his waist showed under the open coat, and 
from his right shoulder hung a long-handled dah and a Kachin 
bag of brightly-embroidered cloth with a scarlet fringe. 


““ January Ist, 1923. 

Dined at the club on Christmas night with a party of 
seventeen, and got back to the Circuit House about I a.m. 
Everyone wanted me to stay on in Bhamo and go 
out early in the new year to the ‘ frontier meeting.’ It 
would be an exceptional opportunity, they said, for seeing 
the country; the Chinese officials would be there in full 
ceremonial dress ; there would be sports and games of unusual 
interest ; and at the end of the meeting a Chinese dinner with 
birds-nest soup and all kinds of queer dishes. I should find 
heaps of things to sketch and material for several articles, 
and altogether it was something that I ought not to miss. 
I therefore wired down to Mandalay to postpone a lecture 

176 


Christmas Day 


I had promised to give there on my return, and began to make 
preparations. And then a young Police officer turned up at 
the Circuit House. He was distinctly cold over the project 
from the first. I went round to the club and found that the chill 
had affected everyone else. They told me that the country 
through which we should have to travel was dull; that it 
would be very difficult to get accommodation ; that I should 
be obliged to hire a tent and full camp equipment; that I 
should need more servants ; that five or six mules would be 
required to carry my kit; that the meetings themselves 
would be long and dreary discussions over boundaries, and of 
no possible interest to me; that the games were nothing 
much from the spectacular point of view; and finally that 
the Chinese dinner would be sure to make me ill. It needed 
no great discernment to grasp the fact that my presence was 
not wanted, though the reason for this volte-face was not 
immediately apparent. 

“T found out afterwards that there had been a scrap up on 
the frontier a year previously, in which twenty-five Lashis 
(transfrontier Kachins) had been killed. The Lashis there- 
upon swore a blood feud against the British. If I had gone 
with the party and wandered off on my own to sketch, I 
might have been waylaid and murdered, and though it 
wouldn’t have been of much consequence as far as I was 
concerned personally (except perhaps to me !) it would have 
meant another punitive expedition and further trouble, an 
eventuality that the authorities preferred not torisk. Hence 
the deluge of cold water. 

177 


12 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


“When my young friend was sure that I had given up the 
idea of coming, he breathed more freely and became quite 
helpful. On his advice I tooka short two days’ trip into the 
mountains to visit a Kachin village. Valu and I and the 
kit drove nine milesin a gharry to a place called Momauk, 
along a good metalled road through the jungle. Small 
clearings and huts here and there. At about half-way we were 
stopped by an obstruction. Some Shans were felling trees 
and had contrived to drop two right across the road. We 
had to wait while the logs were sawn through and levered 
far enough to one side to allow us a passage. We were 
delayed about an hour, but I was able to get some sketches 
and a photograph of the men at work. Their belongings 
were thrown down under a tree, and I had the curiosity to see 
of what they consisted : some ordinary grey wooilen cardigans 
(probably relics of the war or of service in the Police) ; 
Shan bags of hand-woven cloth containing tobacco, betel 
boxes and so forth ; some long sword-like dahs in wooden 
sheaths ; a big piece of bamboo enamelled red, with a tin 
mug attached—evidently containing the water supply; 
and finally some bows, but though I looked everywhere I 
could find no arrows. This puzzled me until I discovered 
later that they do not use arrows, but shoot a little pellet 
of hard-baked clay—in fact, the bow isa kind of catapult, 
and there is a small pouch in the middle of the bowstring 
which holds the pellet until it is shot. In order to avoid 
injury to the bow-hand they give the wrist a quick turn at 
the moment of releasing the string. The pellet then clears 

178 


A Cold Night 


both the bow and the hand. They shoot birds with this 
weapon. 

“ There is a dak bungalow at Momauk where we stayed 
the night. Built on posts, with two bedrooms containing 
camp beds (no bedding), washing apparatus, etc., bathrooms 
of the local type with zinc tubs, and so forth, a wide 
verandah outside with table and long lounge chairs with foot- 
rests, and a cupboard with all the necessary crockery. 

““As soon as we had arrived and established ourselves 
there, I sent my boy for the headman, from whom I was to 
get coolies to carry the kit on the next day. He proved to be 
a fine-looking old Shan. Owing to his energy and resource 
Momauk is a flourishing village with many acres of cleared 
and cultivated land reclaimed from the jungle. He promised 
to arrange for the necessary coolies at two rupees eight annas 
each for the double journey to Palaungkataung, a village nine 
miles beyond Momauk. My boy provided me with a very 
decent dinner—soup, fish and joint—and I went early to bed. 
But the bungalow bedroom proved very cold, and I shivered 
most of the night. The temperature seemed arctic. The 
floor-boards had wide gaps between them, through which you 
could see the ground below. The windows did not fit, and the 
draughts were appalling. I was not at all sorry when my 
boy, himself half-frozen after a night on a cane mat in the 
passage, brought me my tea in the morning. At half-past 
seven the coolies turned up, three of them. I left them to 
follow with Valu and the kit, and strode off through the 
morning mist at a good round pace. I was wearing shorts 


179 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


and found it distinctly chilly about theknees. Theroad for 
the first couple of miles ran through the plain by a stream. 
Mist lay everywhere, but the sun soon began to break through 
and ricks and trees and little thatched huts became visible 
one by one. By the time I reached the foot of the hills the 
fog had cleared away and given place to bright sunshine. 
The forest and jungle growths had an unfamiliar look owing 
to the prevalence of the bamboo. It growsin thick bunches, 
and ata short distance the mountainside appears to be covered 
with gigantic ferns. I passed through a village and began 
the ascent by a rough mule-track. It was warm work and 
my coat was very soon off, and my topee would have followed 
but for the fear of sunstroke. It was absolutely silent 
and still. I saw no signs of animal life. Occasionally a big 
butterfly fluttered across the path, but that was all. Once 
I heard a curious barking noise that was probably the cry of 
the barking-deer, called the ‘gyi’ by the Burmese; and 
once I became conscious of a strong cat-like smell that might 
have been due to a tiger or leopard—there are plenty of tigers 
in the jungle, but as they are nocturnal animals they are 
seldom seen. I had only had tea and toast that morning, 
and began to feel hungry, but there was no prospect of 
breakfast until the coolies reached Palaungkataung, so there 
was nothing for it but to push on. At one place I met a party 
of sturdy Kachin girls striding down the path in Indian 
file with baskets on their backs, and further on I met a mule 
caravan coming from China. The Kachin girls looked very 
picturesque with their masses of glossy black hair and the 
180 


A Kachin Village 


lacquered rings round their hips. I think I understated the 
number of these rings ; I have seen some girls who must have 
been wearing a hundred. The rings are made of lacquered 
cane and not wire, as I originally thought—so that disposes 
of a story I was told about Kachins stealing telegraph wire 
to make them with! Sometimes a silver or a brass ring is 
worn amongst the black, and the rings were devised originally 
as a protection against rape—or so it is supposed—though 
now they have become so much a conventional part of the 
costume that even little girls of four or five wear them. 

“ Palaungkataung lies 3,000 feet up, so I was not sorry 
when [ arrived. It was then eleven o’clock. The climb had 
taken me three hours and a half. It was cool up there and I 
was glad enough to sit in the sunshine. The old Kachin who 
was in charge brought me outa chair and a glass of water and 
I settled down to await the arrival of the coolies and the 
materialisation of breakfast with the best patience I could. 
The bungalow is magnificently situated on the top of a hill. 
The view is extensive and you can see plainly what land is 
under cultivation—and a very small proportion of it is, just 
a strip along both sides of a stream here and there, and by the 
Irrawaddy ; all the rest is jungle. 

“ At 12.30 Valu and the coolies turned up, but it was an 
hour more before breakfast was ready. Valu is a good cook, 
but he likes to take his time. After breakfast I got the old 
Kachin caretaker to show me the village, which consists of 
some half-dozen long low huts half-hidden amongst the 
jungle greenery. His own hut was, I imagine, typical of the 

181 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


rest. At one end the overhanging roof forms a stable or 
shelter for cattle in bad weather. You pass through this and 
climb up on to a platform three feet above the ground, where 
there is a door in the matting wall on the left leading to the 
living room or kitchen, and another on the right leading to 
the rooms set apart for married members of the family, 
the room dedicated to the use of the young girls, and another 
room containing a sacrificial altar. These rooms I was not 
invited to inspect. The living-room ran the whole length of 
the hut. The floor was of bamboo and springy. There were 
no windows, and light could only come through the door or 
through the interstices of the bamboo flooring or roof. Half- 
way down was a fireplace consisting of a square of bricks and 
nothing more. There was no furniture whatever except a 
dirty mat or two and a small platform of bamboo that may 
have done duty as a bed. An old Kachin woman was 
squatting on the floor picking over green-stuff and throwing 
it into a cooking-pot. She was very dirty and tousled and 
her appearance was not bettered by an enormous goitre. 
Another woman, still dirtier, and if possible uglier, sat on a 
mat in the sunshine repairing a filthy rag of a garment, and 
a couple of children fairly caked with muck were playing 
with a mangy puppy. On the whole I feel glad I was not 
born a Kachin. 

““T photographed the family and then continued my tour 
of inspection. The next house would have made a good 
picture if I could have induced a girl who was at work husking 
paddy to come outside. But she wouldn’t. She had the 

182 


A Kachin Village 


most astonishing mass of bobbed hair and a vast number of 
hip rings, and she was working like a Trojan with a 
Brobdingnagian pestle and mortar—the pestle a bit of timber 
five or six feet long and six inches thick, the mortar a heavy 
log of wood stood on end and hollowed out. She lifted the 
great pestle with both hands and drove it down with a 
grunt—indeed, it was enough to make anybody grunt— 
and kept at it steadily as long as I watched her. Unfortun- 
ately she was working under cover of the projecting roof 
and a photograph was impossible. 

“Thad been told that there was another village worth a 
visit a mile and a half farther on, so I got the old Kachin to 
take me there. It was much the same as Palaungkataung 
only more so. Long thatched huts, jungle all round, a sandy 
track through the middle, plantain trees with big shining 
leaves, dirty old hags and dirty children, and dirty old men 
with a dozen scraggy hairs representing a beard, and four 
or five scraggy hairs representing a moustache. Very 
poor specimens of ‘beavers.’ But everything extremely 
picturesque notwithstanding the squalor. 

“That night was even colder than the night at Momauk. 
I slept in my clothes with every available covering, and my 
boy slept in the cookhouse with a fire going all night. We 
started back at half-past seven the next morning, had 
breakfast at the bungalow at Momauk and reached Bhamo 
by gharry at about two o’clock that afternoon.” 


The Kachins (otherwise “‘Chingpawin’’) are found all 
183 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


over the hill-country of North-East Burma. They are 
supposed to have come down from the sources of the 
Irrawaddy, and, being a war-like people, have gradually 
driven the Palaungs, the Chins, and the Shans southwards 
and westwards, and occupied their territory. They are short 
in stature, the men averaging only 5 feet 4 inches in height, 
and the women 4 feet 114 inches. But they are sturdy and 
strong, particularly the women, who do the larger part of 
the labour and are accustomed to climbing up and down the 
mountain paths with heavily-loaded baskets on their backs. 

The features of the Kachin betray Tartar origin, with 
oblique eyes, high cheekbones, and squat nose. The forehead 
is low and the whole face broad and square. Eyes and hair 
are black, or a very deep shade of brown. Most of the 
women I saw wore their hair bobbed. It hung like a thick 
mop, covering the ears, and reaching at the back almost 
to the collar. Some of the younger ones, in spite of the 
dark colour of their skins and the need of a good wash, were 
quite attractive in appearance. 

Hospitality to strangers is universal amongst the Kachins 
as with many other uncivilised and semi-civilised peoples. 
A stranger must remove his arms before entering a house, 
keep away from the private apartments, and be careful to 
observe certain other rules of etiquette; he can then stay 
and share the family meals for as longas he likes. In fact,he 
can claim hospitality as a right, and breaches of the law of 
hospitality, or refusal to entertain a stranger, involve the 
offender in a “ debt.”’ 

184 


About the Kachins 


H. F. Hertz, to whose handbook on the Kachin language 
I am indebted for much of my information about this tribe, 
states that the Kachins never forgive an injury. They will 
wait for years to revenge themselves and, failing success, will 
pass the duty on to children and grandchildren. As an 
illustration of Kachin revenge the case is quoted of a Kachin 
called Hparaw Sau Lai, who was killed at Kamaing in a fight 
between British and Kachins in 1889. Ten years later, 
when one would have thought the incident forgotten, a 
Gurkha family, consisting of a man and his wife and a child, 
were murdered by the son and relatives of Hparaw Sau 
Lai. Although the Gurkhas were not British, they were 
“ foreigners,” and consequently their blood sufficed to wipe 
out the feud. The brother of the murdered man, who was a 
child at the time of the murder, is now a Subadar (platoon 
commander) in the Kachin Regiment. He served in the war 
and has the I.D.S.M. and I.0.M. to his credit, the latter, 
curiously enough, for disarming a Gurkha who had run amok. 

The Kachins’ bad points are personal uncleanliness, an 
addiction to getting drunk on rice-beer, and a fondness for 
the opium pipe. The use of opium, which has increased 
rapidly during the last twenty or thirty years, has resulted, 
according to Hertz, in both moral and physical deterioration. 
The Kachin, it is said, will do more to obtain a little opium 
than he will for anything else. 

Amongst his good points are faithfulness to those to whom 
he is attached, a dislike of foul conversation and abuse, and 
a morality in domestic life which is something of an 

185 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


object-lesson to the West. This last is doubtless due to the 
perfectly natural relations which exist between the sexes. 
In this connection these further extracts from the book I have 
mentioned may be found of interest : 


Great freedom is permitted to young people before marriage, 
and, outside the forbidden degrees of consanguinity, they may 
consort as they please. This custom has not resulted, as is popularly 
believed, in promiscuous intercourse and a general condition of 
immorality. The Kachin maiden, like most girls, takes some wooing 
before she is won, but having fixed her affections on a man, she may 
live with him without shame, and is usually faithful to the person 
she has chosen. If they do not care for each other, they part, and it 
is no one else’s business, each party being free to take up with anyone 
else. If they care for each other sufficiently, they marry. The result 
is stated to be that unchastity after marriage is practically unknown. 

To give greater facilities for courtship and for what might be 
called probationary matrimony, most houses have the “nla dap,” 
maiden’s apartment, which is intended for the use of young people 
only. 

Young men courting Kachin girls are perfectly aware of the 
risks they run and the penalties they are liable to under certain 
circumstances. If a child is the result of the temporary union, it 
is usual to arrange for the accouchment to take place in the man’s 
house, and the man hasto killa bullock and pigs to appease the “‘nats’”’ 
of the damsel’s house. In addition he has to pay a fine to the parents 
of a spear, a gong, a dah, and some pieces of cloth (and sometimes 
a bullock or a buffalo), or else marry her; otherwise, the parents 
have a debt against him. On payment of the fine the man can 
take or leave the child just as he prefers. Subsequent marriage, 
however, legitimises the bastard. In either case there is no blot 
on the character of the woman. 

Polyandry does not exist, but polygamy is permissible. For 
a man, however, to take more than two wives is rare; sometimes, 
however, hecannot help himself. Successive brothers are supposed to 
take unto themselves deceased elder brothers’ widows. Occasionally, 


186 


Morality, Courtship and Marriage 


when the working of this rule would be a hardship from giving 
one man a plethora of females, it is permissible to make an arrange- 
ment for a still younger brother or even a stranger to take the widow. 
The widow has to be taken care of and fed by her husband’s family, 
even if none of them will act the part of husband by her. If they 
do not she returns to her own household, and then this constitutes 
a “debt ”’ which has to be liquidated in blood or money. 


It seems that Kachin parents often favour a marriage of 
convenience for their daughter, as parents sometimes do in 
more civilised communities. When such a catastrophe 
threatens a Kachin girl, the only escape possible is abduction 
by her lover. Hence presumably the popular form of 
marriage, of which the following description is given : 


The Tumsa’s verdict being favourable (the Tumsa is a seer), 
the bridegroom sends some of his friends to the house of a “ lugyi’ 
or respectable man in the village where his intended resides. This 
lugyi is termed ‘Chang Tung.’’ The emissaries inform the 
Chang Tung whom they wish to carry off and display the presents 
which the intending husband has sent. There is a more or less 
recognised scale of presents due according to the social standing of 
the damsel, and the Chang Tung goes by it. If he considers the present 
insufficient, he mentions what is still required. The matter is 
discussed and the exact presents are finally fixed, agreements being 
made to make up deficiencies at the first opportunity. By the Chang 
Tung’s connivance the girl is decoyed to his house and seized and 
carried off. This usually occurs at night. Next morning the Chang 
Tung goes over to the parents and informs them of what has 
happened and displays the presents. As a rule they, being on the 
recognised scale, are accepted. Occasionally, however, the parents 
go in pursuit, and so long as the religious marriage ceremony has not 
been performed and the parties are not man and wife they can 
take the girl back. If, however, the religious ceremonies have been 
gone through, they are too late and must acquiesce. The religious 
and other ceremonies performed in case the girl is not recaptured 


187 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


are similar to those used in the more regular or elaborate form of 
marriage aS common among people of high respectability. 

The regular form of marriage, which is too long to 
describe in full, consists of sacrifices to the nats in addition 
to other ceremonial, and concludes with a great marriage 
feast at which there is drunkenness, disorder, and often a 
free fight. Presents on the recognised scale are also given 
by the bridegroom to the parents of the bride. 

The customs on the birth of a child are curious. All the 
friends and neighbours are assembled and regaled on Kachin 
beer. The midwife has to give the child its name at the 
instant of birth and so prevent any malignant nat from 
stepping in and naming it first, in which case it will pine away 
and die. The naming of the child is according to rule; the 
first male child is always called Kam, and the first female 
child, Kaw ; the second boy Nawng, and the second girl Lu ; 
and so on. If there is much labour it is believed that 
hostile nats are at work and a Tumsa is fetched to discover, 
with the aid of pieces of bamboo, whether the nats are the 
house-nats or nats from the jungle. The jungle nats are 
supposed to be the spirits of those who have died either in 
child-bed or from violence, and, as they want companions, they 
try to seize the woman and child. If the divinations ofthe 
Tumsa reveal the presence of jungle nats, guns are fired offall 
round the house and along the path leading to the village, 
arrows are shot under the house, dahs and torches are 
brandished over the mother’s body, and finally old rags and 
anything else likely to produce a noisome smell are burnt 

188 


Kachin Folk-lore 


under the floor. If, on the other hand, the bamboos point 
to the house-nats as the authors of the trouble, they are 
propitiated by offerings and sacrifices in the usual way. 

For three days after the birth the mother keeps to the 
house. Very early on the morning of the fourth day she goes 
with an old woman of the village to the well. The old woman 
brings a spear and throws it in the direction of the well, calling 
as she does so on all evil spirits to depart. The mother 
then bathes and washes her clothes, and thereafter is free to 
do as she likes. 

A woman who has died in child-birth is not buried, but 
burnt, and until recently it was usual to throw the child into 
the fire also, but this latter custom is fortunately dying out. 

The Kachins to this day are animists, or spirit-worshippers, 
just as were the Burmese many hundreds of yearsago. Every 
house has its nat shrine, and it is acommon sight to see the 
heads of bullocks and other animals that have been sacrificed 
to the nats stuck on posts at the entrance to a Kachin 
house. Missionaries, however, particularly Roman Catholics 
and American Baptists, have of late years been active 
amongst them, and a certain number of Kachins have 
become Christians. Here, at least, is a field where missionary 
work can do nothing but good. Another civilising influence 
is the recruitment of Kachins into the Police and into the 
Kachin Regiment now stationed at Meiktila. 

According to Kachin tradition things visible and invisible 
evolved from mist or vapour, passing through various stages 
until the first spirits, Hkrip Hkrawp and Sik Sawp, came into 

189 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


being. Sik Sawp was female, and represented the heaven. 
Hkrip Hkrawp was male and represented the earth. The 
union of Hkrip Hkrawp and Sik Sawp brought into existence 
Janun and Woishun, who in their turn married and gave birth 
to all things in heaven and earth, including a being, half- 
spirit and half-man, called N’gawn wa Magam. N’gawn wa 
Magam with a big hammer gave shape and beauty to the earth 
and made it habitable for human beings. 

Long ago, says Kachin folk-lore, N’gawn wa Magam 
summoned all mankind and all beasts to come tohim. When 
they were gathered together he gave to the foreigners and 
Manipuris books, to the hornbills lymph with which to 
dress their feathers, to the Burmans, Shans and Chinese, 
writing on paper, and to the Kachins writing on parchment. 
All the races except the Kachins returned home, and were 
careful to preserve the writings which N’gawn wa Magam 
had given them. The Kachins, however, ran short of food 
on the way, and in order to appease the pangs of hunger, 
roasted and ate the parchment. That is why they have 
remained illiterate up to this day. 

Presently N’gawn wa Magam again summoned all men. 
The Burmans, Shans, Chinese and foreigners consulted 
the writings previously given to them and _ thus 
discovered that it was the time for the distribution of riches. 
They took to the meeting the largest baskets they could 
carry. The Kachins, having eaten their parchment, had 
nothing to consult. They therefore went to N’gawn wa 
Magam provided only with small bags or haversacks of cloth. 

190 


The Wild Kachin 


When the assembly was complete N’gawn wa Magam opened 
chests and boxes containing treasures of gold and silver and 
distributed the contents. The Burmans, Shans, Chinese 
and foreigners were able to fill their great baskets to the 
brim, but the Kachins could only take as much as their bags 
would hold. That is the reason they are so poor. 

A third time came a summons from N’gawn wa Magam. 
Once more the Burmans, Shans, Chinese and Kalas 
(foreigners), consulted their writings. They discovered that 
it was time for the distribution of nats. They, therefore, 
took with them flowers as offerings. The Kachins, however, 
anticipating, in their ignorance, a further distribution of 
riches, and determined, this time, to make no mistake, took 
with them the largest baskets they could carry. When all 
were assembled N’gawn wa Magam told the Burmans, Shans, 
Chinese and Kalas to offer their flowers to the nats. But, 
seeing the Kachins without flowers, he filled their baskets 
with nats and sent them away. That is the reason the 
Kachins to this day have so many nats. 


THE WILD KACHIN. 


(From ‘‘The Incomplete Guide to Burma,’’ by R. Swinhoe and 
T. Martin Jones.) 


Where the Irrawaddy flows 
From the everlasting snows, 
Where the fisher binds the hackle 
To his very stoutest tackle ; 
Where the bison fierce and black 
Prods you slyly in the back. 


IQI 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


There you'll find the wild Kachin, 
What a horrid mess he’s in! 
What a mass of grease and dirt ; 
Can you call that rag a shirt ? 
See that clout around his head ! 
Why are all his teeth so red ? 

Do you think he understands 
How to wash his face and hands ? 
Let us scrub him if we can, 

He’s a pukka savage man ! 

Catch him when he’s barely twenty, 
Scrub him daily, good and plenty, 
Change the water when it’s black, 
Peel the clothes from off his back, 
All the clothes he’s ever worn 
Since the day that he was born ; 
Thus by slow degrees you can 
Come upon the inner man. 
Labour on in faith and hope 
(Mind he doesn’t eat the soap !) 
Bye and bye you'll get him clean, 
What a transformation scene ! 
Now when all the scrubbing’s done, 
Dry him quickly in the sun, 

Then to keep him nice and warm 
Dress him up in uniform. 

Wind a turban long and red 
Fifty times around his head. 
Tunic, breeches, belt complete, 
Hob-nailed boots upon his feet, 
Putties, rifle, bag and “ dah,’’ 
Stand him up and there you are! 
What becomes of those who state 
Miracles are out of date ? 

No Kachin before was seen 

So preposterously clean, 


192 


The Wild Kachin 


Turned from such a state of grease 
Into Military P’lice! 

Surely those who changed him so 
Earn at least a D.S.O. 

Many an officer, I guess, 

Gets a K.C.B. for less! 


193 


13 


CHAPTER XII 


Departure from Bhamo—Thabeitkyin—The Drive to the Ruby Mines— 
Mogok—The Ruby Mines—Snake Stories—The Dangers of Hair- 
washing—‘‘ Just Sitting’’—Spirit Worship—A Nightmare—A 
Chest of Rubies. 


ONSTANT farewells are one of the penalties of 
travelling. The traveller meets pleasant people, 
makes friends, and in a few days says good-bye and departs 
to repeat the process elsewhere. It is inevitable. But 
there is something sad in the thought that friends even of 
a few days—for friendship amongst those who make friends 
easily is not a question of time—must be left behind and 
lost, or at best survive only in the memory. In the hurry 
and confusion of the struggle for existence, now multiplied a 
hundredfold by the complications of civilisation, we have 
little time to spare for matters which, however vital to 
happiness, do not help us forward towards the competency 
for which most of us are striving. It makes one wonder 
whether the Burman, contented with a paddy patch, a couple 
of bullocks, and a wife to do most of the work, isn’t, after all, 
a good deal better off than we are. At least he has leisure 
to keep in touch with his friends if he wants to do so. 
I left Bhamo, as I left every place in Burma, with regret. 
It was New Year’s morning. I had been entertained by the 


194 


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a eR, 


Departure from Bhamo 


hospitable European community at the club, where we had 
seen the Old Year out and the New Year in with the usual 
ceremonies. The ferry-boat which was to take me back down 
river was tied up at the landing float, and my boy had 
already gone aboard with the kit. I made my adieus and 
walked away from the club and through the sleeping town. 
There was not a soul to be seen until I reached the river bank 
where the caravans from China foregather. Here in the 
moonlight parties of muleteers lay asleep under their 
blankets surrounded by tethered mules and all the para- 
phernalia of mule travel ; some watchmen sat round a fire, 
stolidly smoking and chewing; and the river, a sheet of 
burnished silver, stretched at my feet. 

The ferry-boat was nearly in darkness. A single oil lamp 
lit the great main-deck. As I made my way forward amongst 
the sleeping passengers, Valu, who was on the look-out, 
got up from his mat, and, having lit a candle, showed me to 
my cabin inthesaloon. A few minutes later, like everybody 
else, I was sound asleep. 

So began the year of grace 1923. 

The next morning a light mist enveloped us. But never- 
theless soon after daybreak the ferry-boat pushed off and, 
picking her way carefully between the lines of buoys, began 
the trip southwards. That evening we reached Katha. I 
had introductions to several people there, but found a dance 
in progress at the club, and not feeling disposed for a second 
late night, returned to the boat without having called on 
anyone. I slept on board, and continued the trip down 


197 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


river the next day. My immediate objective was that part 
of Burma with the romantic name “‘ The Ruby Mines,” of 
which the town of Mogok (accent on last syllable, as usual) is 
thecentre. A river village called Thabeitkyin connects with 
Mogok, sixty miles inland, by means of a service of motor 
lorries. The ferry-boat reached Thabeitkyin at about half- 
past four in the afternoon. At the top of the bank I found a 
dak bungalow, and some motor garages, besides a few native 
shops, and on enquiry was told that a lorry would be starting 
for Mogok at eleven the next day. I therefore settled into 
the bungalow for the night. 

As I had plenty of time I did not hurry to turn out in the 
morning. But to my annoyance, just as I was enjoying 
those precious last few minutes in bed, a man came up from 
the garage to say that the lorry was about to start. I hada 
sort of wash, a sort of shave, and hurried into my clothes 
while Valu packed the kit. And in record time I was 
down at the lorry. I had forgotten that “ starting immedi- 
ately ’’ in Burma means any time within the next half-hour 
or so. After considerable delay the lorry was loaded up 
with passengers and with goods of various kinds. Valu was 
put in the back with some Indians, Burmese and Chinese, I 
was given the seat in front next to the driver, and eventually, 
at about 8.30, we started. 

The drive from Thabeitkyin to Mogok takes six hours. 
But the scenery is so fine, and the excitements of the journey 
are so thrilling, that it does not seem long. The road, which 
passes now through jungle, now through the open, twists and 

198 


The Drive to the Ruby Mines 


twines in the most bewildering fashion. Hardly anywhere 
else will you find such corkscrew turns and such hairpin bends. 
At one moment you are facing East, and the next moment 
West. The lorry slowly pants up an incline of about one in 
five, and almost before you know it you are tearing down hill 
with the engine shut off. Many of the corners are blind, 
and there is often a drop of several hundred feet at one side 
of the road. Several times during the journey I clutched 
the seat, thinking we were over, and every few minutes I 
dug my feet into an imaginary brake as we took a sharp 
curve without concerning ougselves with the possibility of 
meeting anything on the other side—though to be quite fair 
to the driver, I ought to say that he did sound his horn about 
once in every five miles. 

At half-way we stopped to give the passengers an 
opportunity of stretching their legs and of getting some food 
from a roadside stall. Although I had come away breakfast- 
less, the dainties displayed did not tempt me, but I was glad 
to walk up and down in the sun and restore circulation. We 
were by this time several thousand feet up and the air was 
getting chilly. I couldn’t help envying an old Chinaman, 
who was one of the passengers, the great padded coat he 
was wearing. 

I gathered from the driver that wild animals—sambur, 
gyi, and bear—are often encountered on the road. Also 
that they saw a tiger during one of their journeys in the 
previous week. But I saw nothing, either on this trip or on 
the return journey, except a few monkeys. 


199 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


The road became more interesting the further we went 
and the higher we climbed. The views from the highest 
point, about 5,000 feet, were magnificent, and reminded me 
of the views in the foothills of the Indian Himalayas. We 
passed through one or two isolated villages, then through a 





POTTERY SELLERS AT MOGOK. 


“ 


small mining town, and at last, at about 2.30, we arrived at 
Mogok. I was not sorry, as, although the driver’s seat 
boasted a cushion, which the back seats did not, six hours 
in a motor lorry on an empty stomach, and with inadequate 
clothing, is not altogether a joy-ride. 

200 


Mogok 


The two features of Mogok which first struck me were 
corrugated iron and wild cherry in blossom. The town, 
which consists chiefly of tumble-down tin houses, might 
easily be a raw mining town in Alaska. It was anything but 
picturesque. But the magnificent cherry trees in which it 
has its setting at this season of the year, are most beautiful. 





CHATTY SELLERS. 


Such masses of pink blossom must be seen to be believed. 
In addition to the wild cherry there are several species of 
pine (this was the first time I had seen pines in Burma), and 
many magnificent clumps of giant bamboo. The town lies 
in a basin surrounded by mountains. This basin was at 
one time a lake, but the water was drawn off by means of a 
tunnel a mile in length. It is in this old lake bed that the 
201 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


rubies are found. The main part of the town straggles along 
the edge of the old mine workings---a heterogeneous mixture 
of pagodas, wooden buildings, and corrugated iron. We are 
told that everything that serves a useful purpose has a beauty 
of its own, but surely corrugated iron must be an exception. 
Even when disguised with red paint it is depressing and sordid, 
and few of the Mogok buildings even rise to that. The 
inhabitants, though, are picturesque enough. There are 
Burmese, Indians, Chinese, Shans, Shan-Tayoks, Lisaws, 
besides members of other local tribes, each with something 
distinctive in their costume, whose names I do not know. 
Most of them, except the Indian, who clings to his puggaree, 
wear the big mushroom sun-hats that are a feature of this 
locality. 

The dak bungalow was full. I was, therefore, obliged to 
take up my quarters in the Circuit House. It was formerly 
the residence of the District Commissioner, and is conse- 
quently better built and more commodious than Circuit 
Houses usually are. It stands in its own grounds, which 
command an extensive view of the town and the surrounding 
mountains. But the point about it which I particularly 
appreciated was the fireplace in my bedroom. At this 
altitude, 4,000 feet, there is a great difference between the 
temperature during the daytime and after the sun has set. 
As I was exceedingly short of bedding I was thankful, not 
only for the fire, but also for the mattress on the bed—an 
unusual feature in Circuit Houses and dak bungalows, where 
the beds are generally camp cots. The whole of the 

202 


The Ruby Mines 


furnishings were on modern lines and included carpets, 
curtains, upholstered armchairs, and clean white linen for 
the table. In fact, it was a palatial Circuit House, and the 
charges, as I anticipated and afterwards discovered, were 
on a scale quite commensurate. 

Even with the fire and the mattress, I found it very cold 
at night, and had to have recourse to my mosquito curtain as 
an extra covering. A mosquito curtain, if it is not needed to 
keep away mosquitoes, is a very useful standby in such a 
situation. It holds the heat like a cellular undergarment, 
and is consequently much warmer than might at first 
sight be imagined. 

As soon as possible after my installation in the Circuit 
House I had tea in solitary state in the great dining-room. 
The table was covered with a gleaming table-cloth, a luxury 
to which I was unaccustomed, and flowers stood in a vase— 
nasturtiums, petunias, and roses, cut from the garden outside. 
There is nothing like the scent of a rose to carry the imagina- 
tion of the wanderer back to England, even if he happens 
to be in a country where the rose is indigenous—which 
in Britain it is not. I began to feel conscious of a slight 
depression. 

After tea I made my way to the house of the manager of 
the ruby mines, to whom I had an introduction. The opening 
part of our conversation did not serve to cheer me. 

Myself: ‘‘ Is there anything particular to see here ? ’ 

The Mines Manager: “ No.” 

Myself: ‘‘ Is there anywhere to go?” 

203 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


The Mines Manager: “ No.” 

Myself: ‘‘Is there anything to do?” 

The Mines Manager: “ No.” 

Myself: ““ What about the mines?” 

The Mines Manager : ‘‘ You can go over them if you want 
to, but there is nothing to see.” 

There is a great difference, however, between the point 
of view of a bored resident, and that of a newly-arrived 
visitor. I gladly availed myself of the permission to visit 
the mines, and went to the mines office by appointment on 
the following morning. 

I found the manager sorting stones. He had spread them 
out on a large dish of burnished copper. They were uncut 
rubies, spinels, and sapphires and, seen in the mass with the 
sunlight reflected through them from the polished copper, 
were a magnificent sight. The chief market for rubies is, 
I was told, India. Comparatively few go to England. The 
largest stone ever found at Mogok was sold for £20,000. 
One found in October, 1922, is said to be worth half that sum. 
The latter has been named “‘ The Lady Craddock,”’ after the 
wife of the last Lieut.-Governor of Burma. At the time of 
my visit it was unsold. But it is not everyone who 
is prepared to pay such huge sums. Five per cent. interest 
on {10,000 is £500, and on £20,000 is £1,000. £1,000 a year, 
or even £500, is a lot to pay for the privilege of owning a large 
ruby, and the fact that it is possible to find people ready 
to pay it makes one sympathise with the point of view of 
those who favour a capital levy, for, at least on the face of it, 

204 


Snake Stories 


the locking up of capital in this way does not appear to serve 
any useful purpose. 

I was subsequently taken over the mines and shown the 
various operations. Chinese coolies in blue overalls and great 
mushroom hats were digging with mattocks into the red and 
yellow cliffs. The earth was taken in trolleys to the mill, where 
it was passed through large tanks full of water and churned 
up by machinery. The muddy water was then drained off 
and the residue of pebbles, amongst which were the rubies, 
carefully sorted through. Some of the sorters were coolies, 
and these wore enormous masks entirely covering the head 
and making it impossible for stones to be disposed of by 
swallowing or otherwise. 

I dined that evening with the mines manager, and as | 
happened to mention that I had just seen a snake in the 
Circuit House garden, the conversation turned on snakes. 
He told me that recently, when out shooting, he had come 
across a couple of hamadryads, each seven or eight feet long. 
A hamadryad is said to sometimes attack a man on sight, 
but in this instance neither reptile showed any such inclina- 
tion. Instead of attacking, they both glided away into the 
undergrowth as any other kind of snake would have done. A 
hamadryad (otherwise ‘“ King Cobra’’) can travel as fast 
as a man can run, and I am told—though I accept the 
information with reserve—that it progresses by forming its 
body into a series of vertical loops instead of wriggling 
horizontally and laterally as other snakes do. It is a big 
beast growing to twelve or thirteen feet in length, and by 

205 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


reason of its poison fangs, is far more dangerous than the 
python, though the python is often very much larger and more 
formidable in appearance. The snake charmers who live at 
Mount Popa work with wild hamadryads caught in the 
jungle, and not with snakes which have been kept for any 
period and trained. They do not extract the poison fangs, 
but are so quick in avoiding the reptile’s strike that they 
seldom get bitten. They profess to have a specific which 
cures snakebite, but it doesn’t always work. The daughter 
of one of the snake charmers of Popa died recently from 
snakebite, despite the remedy, so I was told by the D.C. of 
Myingyan, in whose district Mount Popa lies. On the other 
hand, there appear to have been authentic cases where the 
remedy was successful. 

Some time ago, before the days of motor lorries, the 
mines manager was riding up from Thabeitkyin to Mogok 
in the company of a general who was visiting Burma. The 
general asked if it was true, as he had been told, that in Burma 
snakes hang by the tail from tree branches and attack 
unwary passers-by, The mines manager laughed the notion 
to scorn. He had heard such stories but they were utter 
nonsense. No snake, he asserted, ever hung from a tree by 
its tail, He had lived for many years in Burma and had 
never seen such a thing nor ever would. It is hardly 
necessary to continue the story. As will be anticipated, the 
two men had not ridden on for more than a quarter of a mile 
when the general exclaimed with a note of triumph: “ Then, 
what about that? ”’’ The mines manager followed the 

206 


The Dangers of Hair-Washing 


direction of the general’s finger, and there, sure enough, was 
a snake hanging from a branch by its tail and swaying its 
body to and fro as if in search of a victim. 

As I was wandering rather aimlessly the next morning 





SORTING STONES. 


in the neighbourhood of the mines, I came across women 

and girls busy in a nullah sorting stones. These stones 

were the waste from the mill which contains enough small 

rubies to make it worth the while of a contractor to purchase. 

The girls were all either wearing their big hats, or had them 
207 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


propped up on sticks to shelter them from the sun. They 
were well worth sketching, so I sat down on the bank above 
and took out my book. Immediately there was a rush to hide, 
and all that was left to draw was a maximum of hat and a 
minimum of girl. But their work had to be done, whether 
there was a “ thakin ’’ up on the bank with a sketchbook or 
not, and in the end I got the pictures I wanted. When their 
shyness had quite worn off they came up to see the result, 
and there was much excited laughter and chaff and thumbing 
of my unfortunate sketchbook. 

Burmese girls, though they are a little coy about it at 
first, rather like being sketched. I had had an amusing 
half-hour at Bhamo on the previous Sunday morning, drawing 
the women-folk on the foreshore washing themselves, their 
clothes, and their babies. The babies howled vigorously 
when the water was poured over them. But the more they 
howled the more their Spartan mothers soused them. At 
Bhamo, as at Mogok, curiosity conquered shyness, and they 
all came and peeped over my shoulder, and laughed and 
chaffed and chattered and dropped water down my neck 
from their wet lungyis. 

At Mogok, where there is no river except a muddy stream 
from the mine workings, everyone washes at the street 
fountains. Both men and women are often to be seen washing 
their long hair there, and this hair-washing recently led toa 
tragedy. A man was standing at a fountain with his head 
bent down and neck exposed while he rubbed his wet locks 
with both hands. Another man passed by, saw the neck 

208 


ee See ee ee ee ee 








“ Just Sitting” 


stretched out invitingly, and immediately drew his dah and 
cut the man’s head off. The wielder of the dah, who was 
afterwards tried and hanged, explained that he had always 
hated the other man and all his relations, that in fact he 
couldn’t bear the sight of him, and that when such an oppor- 
tunity presented itself—well, what else could anyone 
expect ? He seemed to think this quite a sufficient defence. 
The judge, however, did not agree. 

A recent visitor to a Burmese gaol saw a miserable figure 
sitting at the door ofa cell. 

“What is this man here for ? ” he asked. 

“ For murder.”’ 

“What does he do all day?” 

“Nothing. He is a leper and both his hands are gone. 
There is nothing he can do. He just sits there.” 

“What is his sentence ? ”’ 

“Twenty years.” 

Twenty years sitting at the door of acell! Who wouldn’t 
rather be hanged ? 

Near the spot where the women were sorting stones was a 
grove of trees. Amongst the trees stood three little shrines. 
These were nat shrines, and they contained flowers and 
candles which had been placed there as offerings to the 
spirits which are believed by the Burmese to inhabit the grove. 
The Westerner, who refuses to sit down thirteen to table, 
who never walks under a ladder without crossing the fingers, 
who bows to the new moon and turns his money, who throws 
spilt salt over his left shoulder, and does many other childish 

209 
14 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


things in order to avert bad luck, will naturally laugh at this 
superstition of the Burmese. Nevertheless, as I stood in the 
grove I was conscious of an eerie feeling. And after all, it 
is at least as difficult to disprove the existence of tree spirits 
as to prove it, while in support of the Burman’s view there 
are cases on record of disaster following spoliation of these 
sacred trees, as was admitted to me by one of the English 
residents. So the Burman would appear to have the better 
of the argument. 

The Buddhist religion, strictly speaking, does not 
countenance the belief in nats, and forbids anything at all in 
the nature of spirit worship. Yet all over Burma nat shrines 
are found by the pagodas and sacred buildings. Often the 
shrine takes the form of an umbrella made in an elaborate 
design of metal-work. Beneath the umbrella is a little altar 
on which offerings are placed. At some of the poorer 
villages I have seen, not an imitation umbrella, but an 
ordinary umbrella of oiled linen set up by a pagoda for the 
same purpose. Even at the great Shwe Dagon pagoda in 
Rangoon thereisanat shrine. So that animism, the old form 
of religion, still persists alongside the new—if one can calla 
religion new that dates back several centuries B.C. 

The depression at which I have hinted seemed to grow 
worse the longer I remained in Mogok. It took the curious 
form of a distaste for meeting anybody. Several times I 
went to the club with the intention of looking in, knowing 
that I should be sure of a welcome. But each time a feeling 
of shyness kept me back and in the end I never went at all. 

210 








a ew SP 


Se ee ee ee 


A Nightmare 


To make matters worse, I was obliged to stay on several 
days longer than I had meant to do, as there was no boat 
from Thabeitkyin to Mandalay. I am at a loss to account 
for the mood that I was in. Perhaps the corrugated iron 
had entered into my soul. Or perhaps it was the knowledge 
of the miles of impenetrable forest which hem Mogok on every 
side—a form of claustrophobia with which all who have to 
live for long periods in the jungle are acquainted. But 
whatever the cause, the depression gained on me, until it 
culminated on my last night in a horribly vivid dream. I 
thought I was on a jury and had to view a body. The body 
was that of a man who had been decapitated. It lay all 
scarred and bloody on a table. The severed head was 
rolling on the floor. As I looked at the head it moved, and 
the eyelids began to flicker. Then it mysteriously acquired 
an amorphous body, and staggering to its feet lurched 
towards me, gasping in a strangled voice, “I’m not dead 
yet, old chap!” At which point, mercifully, I awoke. 
But the dream was followed by a waking nightmare of depres- 
sion that was even worse. It is hard to believe how 
inconceivably miserable I felt, and how thankful I was when 
the tardy dawn came to bring a little relief. 

The lorry was coming to pick me up at 7.30. So I had 
breakfast at seven, and then asked the durwan for my bill. 
It was Rs. 50 for four days, but as the fellow produced a 
paper showing the prices he was authorised to charge, I had 
to pay it with the best grace Icould. Anyone contemplating 
a visit to Mogok had better give the Circuit House a miss, 

211 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


unless expense is no object. The food supplied was 
exceedingly poor, and I left in a bad temper feeling certain 
that I had been “ done.”’ As soon as the lorry had gone too 
far to turn back, I remembered to my intense disgust that 
I had paid the old thief of a durwan four rupees for a 
dinner that I never had. This didn’t mend matters. And 
finally, by way of a last straw, came an enforced wait of over 
an hour at the garage while some trifling repair was made to 
the belt that drives the fan. It took half-a-dozen people 
all this time to do a job that an English mechanic would have 
finished in ten minutes. 

At a small mining town a few miles out of Mogok we 
stopped to pick up some freight. This consisted of a packing- 
case covered with canvas and Chinese hieroglyphics. I asked 
what it contained and was told rubies, which, judging by the 
great weight, must have been secured ina steel safe. It was 
a problem how to get the package upon to the lorry. But 
about half the population of the place came to help, and finally 
the difficulty was overcome by roping the case and putting a 
stout length of the ever-useful bamboo through the rope. Two 
men then stooped down and took the ends of the bamboo upon 
their shoulders and, with much straining and effort and plenty 
of vocal encouragement from the onlookers, managed to reach 
an upright position. Then willing hands shoved and pushed 
and lifted until at last the case was manceuvred safely on to 
the floor of the lorry. It was hard work, but instead of 
scratching their heads and pulling long faces over it, as one 
can imagine a British workman doing, these Burmese laughed 

212 








A Chest of Rubies 


and chattered, and treated the whole affair as a huge joke. 
It was an object lesson in cheerfulness, and incidentally 
showed the great strength of the bamboo; anything else 
would have snapped under the strain; the elasticity of the 
bamboo saved it. 

The run back to Thabeitkyin was without other incident, 
and wild animals were again conspicuous by their absence. 
The driver stated that if I had done the trip either in the 
early morning or late evening, I should have seen sambur 
by the hundred. I was reminded of the many occasions 
when I have gone fishing, only to be told by the keeper, 
“What a pity you weren’t here last week, sir! The fish 
were rising grand. But now the stream’s too fine. If we 
get a bit of rain and so on and so forth. 

I was unfeignedly glad to get back to the river again. 
The broad open stretches, the fresh breeze, the sense of space, 
freedom and air, were a tonic to the spirits. My depression 
had completely vanished long before the boat reached 
Mandalay. 


>) 


213 


CHAPTER XIII 


King Mindon Min’s Church—The Mandalay Massacres—A Burmese 


Service—Pi-dogs—The Palace of Mindon Min—Mosquitoes—The ~ 


Arakan Pagoda—Leper Asylums—Chin-lon—Tattooing. 


CHURCH building which is the gift of a monarch 
A of one faith to missionaries of another faith working 
to establish their religion in his own country, must surely 
be unique. Christ Church, Mandalay, can claim this 
remarkable distinction, and as I was the guest of the 
hospitable padre during my stay, and consequently able to 
ascertain the facts at first hand, I give the story here. 

In 1867, Dr. Marks, the $.P.G. missionary in Rangoon, 
heard from Major Sladen, the British Political Agent, at 
the Court of King Mindon Min, that the time was favourable 
for the establishment of a Christian Mission in Mandalay. 
The King, he said, had not only given permission for a 
Christian Church and school, but had promised every possible 
assistance. The following year Dr. Marks went to Mandalay 
to see the King and to begin the work, and in his diary 
he thus chronicles his adventures : 

I left on August 28th, 1868, accompanied by six of my best first- 
class boys from Rangoon, and reached the capital city of Mandalay 


on October 8th, where we were most hospitably received by Major 
Sladen, who had but recently returned from his expedition. On 


214 


eS 


A ee ee a ee ee ee eee ae 


King Mindon Min’s Church 


the following day the Kulla Woon (foreign minister) came to tell me 
that the king had been very impatient about my coming; was 
very glad to hear of my arrival, and would appoint an early day for 
an audience. 

On Saturday I went out to see the city. It is large and well 
laid out, the streets wide and at right angles, but the houses mean 
and irregular. There are in Mandalay more than 20,000 yellow-robed 
Buddhist priests. 

On Sunday we had English service at the Residency, and on 
Monday, October 11th, I went to the palace (which seems to occupy 
about one-eighth of the city, and is itself fortified by a stockade all 
round) with Major Sladen and the Kulla Woon. On reaching the 
steps we all had to take off our shoes, and then walk a considerable 
distance, to the apartment in the garden where the king was 
receiving. We entered the room, in which were very many of the 
Burmese high officials and ministers seated on the floor. We, too, 
seated, or rather squatted, ourselves down. In a few minutes the 
king came in, attended by a little boy, one of his sons. 

The king is a tall, stout, thoroughly Burmese-looking man, about 
fifty-five years of age. He had on only one garment, the putso, or 
beautiful silk cloth covering from his waist to his feet. He reclined 
on a velvet carpet, near which the little prince placed the golden 
betel-box and water-cup, and then reverentially retired. As the 
king entered every Burmese bowed his head to the ground and kept 
it there. His majesty, according to his usual custom, took up a 
pair of binocular glasses, and had a good stare at us. He then asked 
if I was the English hpoongyee, when did I arrive, how old was I, 
etc. Hethen asked me what requests I had to make to him, assuring 
me that all were granted before I spoke. 

I said that I had four requests to make: (1) Permission to labour 
as a missionary in Mandalay; (2) To build a church for Christian 
worship according to the use of the Churchof England; (3) To geta 
piece of land for a cemetery; (4) To build with his majesty’s help, 
a Christian school for Burmese boys. With regard to the first, the 
king said very courteously that he welcomed me to the royal city 
and that he had impatiently awaited my arrival. I was to choose, 
with Major Sladen’s advice, a piece ofland foracemetery. That with 


215 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


regard to the church and school, his majesty would butld them entirely 
at his own cost. I told him that the Bishop of Calcutta had most 
liberally offered £100 towards the church. The king replied, “‘ It is 
unnecessary, I will do all myself.’ He directed me to prepare the 
plans, adding that the school was to be built for 3,000 boys. 

The king said that it was his wish to place someof his own sons 
under our care, and he sent for nine of the young princes, fine, 
intelligent-looking lads from about ten years of age, and formally 
handed them over to me. He handed me a hundred gold pieces 
(worth £50) to buy books, etc., for the school. The king talked 
about his high regard for Major Sladen, whose word he could 
implicitly trust ; of his desire to do all the good in his power, and 
especially to be friendly to the English. . . . The interview 
having lasted over two hours, his majesty concluded by inviting 
my boys and self to breakfast in the palace on the following day. 
He kindly accepted the present of beautifully-bound books which 
the Calcutta Committee had been good enough to forward to me 
for him. 


Tuesday, 13th.—Major Sladen being too poorly to accompany 
us, my five boys (Moung Gyee, Moung Hpo Too, Moung Bah Ohn, 
Moung Tsan Hlah Oiung, and Moung Hpo Ming) went with me to the 
palace at nine o’clock. We travelled in covered bullock-carts, as 
it is considered very wrong for a hpoongyee to ride on horseback. 
We found the king in the Hman Nan Dor (or glass palace), attended 
by several of his queens and daughters. 

My boys prostrated themselves, as did the other Burmans, 
whilst I squatted down in a cramped position, being obliged to keep 
my feet out of sight. The king was seated on the highest of a flight 
of six steps. He began by asking if I was comfortably housed and 
cared for. He reiterated his promises of yesterday and expressed 
his hope that all would not be in vain. He made me tell him about 
each boy, and he addressed some kind words to them. I presented 
him with a telescope, and the boys gave a lot of English toys to the 
young princes. In return the king gave two putsoes (silk cloths) 
valued at £3, to each boy. I also presented to the queen, through 
his majesty, a box of beautiful needle and crochet work made and 
presented by the Burmese girls in Miss Cook’s school. The king 


216 


- - a 


King Mindon Min’s Church 


pulled out two or three pieces of work, but did not seem to know much 
about them. He tossed them to the ladies behind him, who evi- 
dently valued them highly. 

The king began to talk to the boys about religion. He told 
them they should not lightly forsake their ancestors’ creed. I 
interposed, when he laughingly said, ‘“‘O Pone-dor-gyee”’ (‘‘ high 
hpoongyee,” the name he always gives me), “I and you will talk 
about these matters alone by ourselves.” I replied that I should be 
delighted to converse with his majesty on those subjects, which were 
of the highest moment to all mankind. The king said he only wanted 
to guard the boys against being rash and foolish, or changing their 
religion to please men ; that he was perfectly tolerant ; that he had 
never invited a Mussulman, Hindu, or Christian to become a Buddhist, 
but that he wished all to worship according to their own way. 

We were then conducted to another apartment, where a 
sumptuous breakfast was served to us in English style. My 
boys and I sat down to table, the Burman attendants wondering to 
see my lads freely using knives and forks instead of the orthodox 
fingers in eating. Suddenly my boys all slipped off their chairs on to 
the ground, and when I looked up to see the cause I found that one of 
the elder princes, a lad of about seventeen, had entered, having 
been deputed by his father to see that all was right. 

I went again to the palace by appointment, with my boys, 
yesterday morning, to take the plans for the school and teachers’ 
residence. He approved of the plan with one exception, viz., 
that the school must not have a triple roof, such being only for 
princes and hpoongyees. My house is to be so honoured. The 
king’s Minister for Public Works was called into the presence and 
ordered at once to commence the work, and to use all expedition in 
its completion. The king gave me {100 towards school furniture, I 
told him that I would procure a plan in Rangoon for the church. 
He repeated that it would trouble him very much if no English 
hpoongyee came to Mandalay. I assured him that his liberality 
would not be so despised, but that I really would return myself and 
open the school. 

After some further general conversation the king spoke to the 
boys, and especially to one Aracanese boy whom I adopted in 1863. 


217 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


He repeated what he had said before about not forgetting the religion 
of his ancestors. I said that the boy’s ancestors had not heard the 
good news which I taught him. The king took no notice of what I 
said, but continued to the boy, ‘‘ Always remember the Yittanah 
thon bah (the three objects of devotion), the Payah (deity), Tayah 
(law), and Thingah (clergy).”’ I said, ‘‘ Christianity teaches us to 
worship the everlasting God, to obey His laws, and to receive 
instruction from the clergy.” 

The king seemed annoyed for a time and then repeated, in his 
usual good-humoured manner, “I cannot talk with you about 
religion in public; we will talk about it privately on your return.” 
He added, ‘ Do not think me an enemy of your religion. If I had 
been, I should not have called you to my royal city. If, when you 
have taught people, they enter into your belief, they have my full 
permission ’’ ; and then, speaking very earnestly, ‘if my own sons, 
under your instruction, wish to become Christians, I will let them 
doso. I will not be angry with them. ” 

The king, it seems, was anxious to obtain for his people 
educational facilities upon Western lines, and it was 
probably to this desire that his friendliness to the English 
missionaries was due, though it may also have been in his 
mind, as will appear later, to propitiate the British and so 
regain possession of either Bassein or Rangoon, both of which 
seaports had been lost in the Burmese wars. That he was 
broadminded in the matter of religion but had at the same 
time no leanings towards Christianity seems also clear, and 
those parts of his speeches which refer to the subject of 
religion are something of a lesson to us Britishers who are so 
certain of the superiority of our own institutions that we must 
needs force them on everybody. 

In spite of spasmodic efforts on the part of King Mindon 
Min to raise recruits, the number of pupils at the school 


218 


King Mindon Min’s Church 


which Dr. Marks established does not appear at any time to 
have been large. The attendance of the young princes is 
related in some old diaries and school records to which I 
had access, and entries appear recording their having been 
“kept in ”’ for arriving late. Thibaw, the future king, was 
one of the students, and his subsequent successful attempt to 
seize the throne is responsible for notes of more tragic import 
which conclude certain columns in the school records, such 
as “‘ assassinated by order of his brother Thibaw.”’ 

King Mindon seems to have required a good deal of 
prompting to keep him to his promise to build a church. 
But in the end the church was built, and in 1873 was 
consecrated by Bishop Milman, of Calcutta. Queen Victoria 
interested herself in the venture and presented a marble font 
which is still in use. 

In addition to building the church the King appears to 
have financed the school. But by degrees a breach opened 
between the King and Dr. Marks, as thus described by the 
latter in Forty Years in Burma: 


There gradually came a coolness on the part of the king. 
Little difficulties had often arisen from the first, too trivial perhaps for 
record, but as time went on they gradually increased. The king 
sent more boys, boarders and day pupils, but the monthly payments 
became more and more irregular. Once when arrears amounted to 
Rs. 500, the king sent meonly Rs. 200. Isent this back, that I might 
bring to his personal notice that the work was not being conducted 
for my private benefit, and that I had none but his funds to maintain 
the school. 

For a few days the king was angry and did not call me. Then 
he sent for me and was as pleasant as usual, But he said, ‘‘ You did 


219 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


wrong to send back royal money. If my highest minister had done 
so he would have been dragged out of the palace by the hair of his 
head.”’ I assured his majesty that I had no wish to offend him, and 
that as to the penalty, my baldness would render its infliction in my 
case an impossibility! The king laughed heartily and called the 
queens to enjoy the joke, and at once paid up the arrears. But he 
hated to pay regularly, and I was compelled to ask him to do so. 
Then he persistently asked me to get him some guns and rifled cannon 
which, of course, I neither could nor would. 

At last, one day, in a private room, he unfolded a plan by which 
I could, as he thought, be of great service to him. I was to go to 
England in his sea-going steamer, the Tsitkai-yin byan, taking with 
me two or three of the princes, and when I got to London I was to 
tell Queen Victoria how good he had been, and ask her to give back 
to his Government Bassein or Rangoon, that he might have a seaport 
of hisown. Of course I pointed out the impossibility of my under- 
taking anything of the kind. He got very angry, and said hastily, 
‘“Then you are of no use to me.”” But he soon recovered his good 
temper and talked pleasantly as others came into the room. But 
I never saw him again. 


The outcome of this was that Dr. Marks left Mandalay 
in 1875. But the school and church were carried on by his 
successors until the death of Mindon Min, and through the 
terrible time of the massacres which accompanied the seizing 
of the throne by Thibaw, at the instigation of his ambitious 
and unscrupulous queen. The name of this notorious woman 
was Supayalat ; she was nicknamed by the British Tommies 
“ Queen Soup-plate.’’ At this time the mission was under 
the charge of the Rev. J. A. Colbeck, and the following 
extract from a letter of his dated September 18th, 1878, 
throws an interesting light on the events of that troubled 
period. 

220 


The Mandalay Massacres 


‘““ When I last wrote,”’ says Mr. Colbeck, ‘‘ I was expecting and 
watching for the arrival of refugee princes escaping from an expected 
massacre ; we did not know whether the king was alive or dead, and 
expected to hear a wild outburst of confusion every moment. I 
stayed up till the next morning at 3, and then turned in till 6 o’clock 
—nothing happened. Next day, according to secret information 
received, a ‘‘ Lady of the Palace’’ came dressed as a bazaar woman, 
and shortly afterwards came about a dozen others ; they were more 
than Ihad bargained for, but Ihad to take them in and secrete them 
as well as possible. A few minutes after them came in a common 
coolie, as I thought. I got up and said, ‘Who are you ?’ He said, 
“Iam Prince Nyoung Yan; save me!’ He was terribly agitated, 
had escaped from a house in which he was confined, and his uncle 
had been cut down—not killed—in opening a way for the prince 
to escape. This made me a party of twelve: the prince and his 
wife, two daughters (princesses), one son (prince), foster-mother and 
her daughter and attendants. . . . We knew search was being 
made for the fugitives, and so as soon as dusk came we dressed up 
our prince, Nyoung Yan, as a Tamil servant, and as it fortunately 
came on to rain, I smuggled him into the Residency Compound, 
right under the noses of the Burmese guard at the gate. Hecarried 
a lamp and held an umbrella over me, as it was raining, and I treated 
him in character, i.e., spoke to him as a servant, etc., until the coast 
was clear. We did it capitally, and even cheated the Indian servants 
of the Doctor, into whose house we first went. Prince Nyoung Yan, 
alias Ramasawmy, did his part well, and we could afford to laugh at 
it were it not that he is still in some danger. He might be pro- 
claimed king to-morrow, or if one of his half brothers was proclaimed 
he would know that Upper Burma is no longer safe for him. 


“Next evening I went to dinner with the British Resident. 
This was a bona fide engagement. As it was dark, of course, I 
needed a light, so one of the Prince’s servants became my servant, 
and a sweet but sad little Princess of ten years, dressed as a boy, 
followed me, carrying books for me. This is just in Burmese style. 
Priests get boys to carry books, etc., for them, so we got through the 
guard again; I thought they were going to stop us long before we 


221 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


got to the gate, but walked boldly on and the guard cleared out of 
my way. So Princess Tay Tain Lat got in safely to her father. 
Shortly after I got home, at about 11 o’clock, two of the guard 
strolled into our compound with drawn swords. I heard their 
footsteps but did not know who they were, so I challenged them. 
‘“Who’s there?’ Answer, ‘Guard.’ ‘What do you want?’ 
Answer, ‘ Things are very unquiet, we have come to see that allis 
quiet here.’ I replied, ‘ Very good, the best place to watch is at the 
gate.’ Then went, and then I breathed freely again; I thought 
they must have got some idea of my little family. Next morning 
I sent Princess Tay Tain Gyee to the Post Office, which is inside the 
Residency Compound, dressed up asa boy. Oneof my own Christian 
boys from Kemmendine went with her and brought back a note from 
Mr. Shaw, the British Resident, saying she had got in safely. The 
Postmaster came to breakfast with me, and as he was going back to 
office I said he might as well take a boy with a box of books, etc. 
He said ‘ All right,’ and got in by another gate, also guarded. This 
‘boy,’ dressed as such, was the foster sister of the Prince, and a brave 
little woman she was. It was she who had come first of all to 
prepare the way for the whole family. Ifshe had been apprehended, 
she would have been beaten to death very likely.” 


About seventy more royal refugees were subsequently 
hidden and got away by the Mission. 

On October 7th, 1879, the British Resident had to leave 
Mandalay. He was accompanied by the staff of the Mission 
and other British residents, and the Church was left deserted. 

In 1885, directly after the deportation of King Thibaw, 
Mr. Colbeck returned, found both church and_ school 
buildings little damaged, and re-started the Mission work, 
which has continued up to the present time. 

The church presents a curious mixture of East and West. 
It is built of teak, and has been ornamented by Burmese 
carvers in the local style. But in design it is Gothic, and the 

222 


A Burmese Service 


tower is square. It is, in fact, a reproduction of an average 
medieval English church in wood instead of stone. In spite 
of some incongruity—and the most incongruous feature is 
Queen Victoria’s marble font—the interior is not at all 
unpleasing. I attended the Sunday service there, and found 
a similar curious mixture. It was conducted by two Burmese 
Christian priests as well as the English padre. They looked 
very quaint with silk handkerchiefs round their heads in 
Burmese fashion, and with their bare legs and feet showing 
below their surplices. The congregation consisted of Burmese 
and Anglo-Indians (Eurasians). Some sat in pewsin European 
style, others squatted on mats on the floor. The men sat 
on the left of the church, the women on the right. The choir 
wore little white jackets and pink lungyis, and the music 
consisted of Burmese tunes something like plainsong, mixed 
up with some of the horribly commonplace tunes of our 
“Hymns Ancient and Modern.’”” The whole service was in 
Burmese, including, of course, the sermon ; and the singing 
was nothing if not hearty. ‘‘ Hymns A. and M.” evidently 
make a strong appeal to the Burman! The congregation 
departing after the service amongst the tamarind trees in 
the compound, made a perfectly delightful picture. Their 
transparent umbrellas threw soft shades of colour on to 
their white jackets, and their silk lungyis and pasohs glowed 
in the sunshine. They were all decked out in their best. 

The city of Mandalay, though, as I have already stated, 
it did not impress me at first sight, is nevertheless exceedingly 
picturesque and very Burmese. But the picturesqueness is 

223 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


the picturesqueness of dirt and disorder. Even the main 
streets are littered with paper and rubbish, and the shops 
and stalls overflow confusedly on to the pavements. The 
lesser streets are inches deep in dust, the roadway is full of 





IN THE OUTER BAZAAR AT MANDALAY. 


holes, and seems to be used as a general depository for filth 

and garbage. In many parts the houses and shops are half 

hidden by big trees, and here the streets are really very much 

like the streets of any country village. There are many 

Indians, and also Chinese, but they do not overshadow the 

Burmese as they do in Rangoon, though the Indian, in 
224 


The Palace of Mindon Min 


particular, is quite considerably in evidence. Children swarm 
everywhere—happy laughing little creatures—and the pi-dog 
seems to flourish, despite periodic raids on the part of the 
municipal authorities. My host told me that the bag of the 
last raid in the Mission compound was no less than twenty- 
five. He returned from a walk and at the compound gate 
met the cart, out of which protruded a hundred pathetic 
canine legs. The dogs are destroyed with poisoned meat, 
and I heard of one gruesome case in which a decrepit pet dog 
that had to be “ got rid of,’”’ brought the bit of poisoned meat 
into the house, sat up and begged, and then proceeded to eat 
it under the table at which his mistress was having tea ! 

Every visitor to Mandalay is expected to admire the views 
on the moat at sunset. And this is quite easy to do. The 
moat surrounds the Fort in the centre of which stands the 
palace of Mindon Min. The walls are of red-brown brick, 
each side a mile and a quarter long. Atintervals, pyatthats 
of exceedingly graceful pattern rise above the battlements. 
The moat reflects in its still water the walls, the pyatthats 
and the sky, and the colouring is certainly wonderfully fine. 
The palace, which witnessed terrible scenes at the time of the 
massacres, is of very beautiful design. But it is garish and 
tawdry on a close view. The queens’ quarters—a vast hall 
supported by great pillars of teak covered with gold leaf, 
and with walls of gold decorated with a mosaic of silvered 
glass—are about the most comfortless kind of apartment 
imaginable. A room in a Kachin hut is homelike and cosy 
in comparison, 

225 
15 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


Up at Bhamo and Mogok, and on the river above Mandalay 
we had been almost free from mosquitoes, but in Mandalay 
they began to make themselves a nuisance again. The 
short “‘ cold ’’ weather was nearly over, and mosquito curtains 
at night were once more a necessity. People in England who 
never go abroad fail to realise the advantage of living in a 
country where there are few mosquitoes. It is a distinct 
set-off against the much-abused British climate. In 
Burma if one gives a dinner-party, a Japanese ‘‘ smudge ”’ 
must be kept burning under the table, and pillow-cases 
provided for the protection of the legs and ankles of the 
ladies. Their bare arms, however, are unprotected, and it is 
quite a common thing to see a pretty European girl with arms 
disfigured by a mass of red spots. “Il faut souffrir pour 
étre belle.”’ It is also necessary, it would appear, to suffer 
in order to be in the fashion. The Burmese lady with her 
sleeved jacket seems, to the mere man, wiser than her 
European sister. Would she too, one wonders, suffer in 
order to be beautiful if Burmese fashion decreed that arms 
should be bare ? 

One of the great sights of Mandalay, the Arakan Pagoda, 
was closed to me because of the regulation about footwear, 
but I saw, and was duly humiliated by, the photograph to 
which I have referred elsewhere. The pagoda contains the 
famous image of the Buddha that was brought from Akyab 
in 1874, as spoil of a raid by the Burmese. It is of brass, 
and twelve feet high. “ According to the inscription,” says 
Sir George Scott, in The Burman : His Life and Notions, “‘ the 

220 | 


The Arakan Pagoda 


king drew this Arakan Gautama to the shrine by the charm | 
of his piety, but the historical books speak only of rough force 
of arms. However that may be, it is a mystery how the 
huge masses of metal—the figure was cast in three sections— 
were brought over the steep pathless mountain sides.” 

In regard to this problem one can only suppose that such 
feats were made possible by reason of the large number of 
men available. Probably the great figure was transported 
by slaves captured in the raid. A somewhat similar feat was 
performed by the Burmese in recent times, when they raised 
the great bell of the Shwe Dagon Pagoda, which had been 
dropped by the British into the Rangoon River in a futile 
attempt to get it aboard a vessel and bring it to England. 
We, with all our modern resources, had failed to raise it. 
The Burmese asked permission to make the attempt them- 
selves, and succeeded where we had failed. How they did 
it we do not know, but they did, and the bell is now back at 
the Pagoda in its original position. 

Beyond the Arakan Pagoda the road runs out to Amara- 
poora, one of the old capitals of Burma. My host drove me 
there in his car to see the weavers at work, as Amarapoora 
is the seat of the silk weaving industry. Almost every house 
seemed to have its loom, with either a man or a woman at it, 
while outside, squatting on the ground, old cronesand children 
busied themselves winding the silk on to the bobbins for 
use in the shuttle. It is the busiest place I have yet seen in 
Burma. There were shops also in which masons were 
working on stone images of the Buddha, and others where 

227 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


they were making the “‘htis,”’ or umbrellas of fancy ironwork, 
which are always used to crown the spires of pagodas. Iwas 
surprised to find such a large industry of this kind. Evidently 
the building of pagodas goes merrily on. The road from 
Mandalay to Amarapoora is very picturesque, with shady 
tamarind trees on either side, and huts and houses half 
hidden amongst them. But it is deep in dust, as are all the 
Mandalay roads, and a sort of permanent fog is maintained 
by passings vehicles. 

There are two leper asylums in Mandalay, both of which I 
was able to visit. Leprosy, thanks to modern discoveries 
and modern methods of treatment, can, they say, be con- 
siderably checked, if not actually cured, and there seems to 
be.no reason why it should not be ultimately stamped out 
in the East as it has been stamped out in the West. This 
desirable consummation is at present, however, a long way 
from achievement, and the percentage of lepers in the popula- 
tion of Burma is still high. One of the drugs used in com- 
bating the disease comes from Burma and is derived froma 
tree—the chaulmoogra—which grows in large quantities 
in the Chindwin district, and it is rather interesting to note 
that it has been used for some time past as a specific in the 
treatment of leprosy by the native doctors themselves, 
though the native practitioner, from our point of view, is 
more of a necromancer than a physician, and still depends 
largely upon charms for his cures. 

The first patient we called upon was an Anglo-Indian 
(Eurasian) who had been in the home for seventeen years. 

228 


Leper Asylums 


He was fortunate in having a little room all to himself with a 
separate door opening into the compound. He was thus 
separated from the wards which housed the Burmese and 
Indian patients. His hands, what remained of them, were 
stiff and distorted, yet his principal occupation was painting. 
He displayed with pride a number of oil paintings of sacred 
subjects, all of which had been copied from other pictures. 
They were pathetically crude. On the back of each he had 
put the title, date of execution, and a Bible text relevant to 
the subject—all in most careful and accurate lettering. The 
pictures themselves were carefully stowed away in a wooden 
chest of his own manufacture. The doctor, he told us, 
had suggested that he might like to make a bit of garden in 
front of his room, and amuse himself by working in it, but 
he was “‘ much too busy to attend to a garden’! Every 
afternoon he went out for a walk along certain prescribed 
roads, and once, as he told us with shining eyes, he saw a 
leopard. This was evidently the one great incident of all 
those weary years. 

At the other establishment, which was built and is run 
by Roman Catholics, we visited another Anglo-Indian, a 
young man of twenty-eight, who is gradually losing both 
feet and hands. This poor creature was living in a large 
ward full of native patients. He had no privacy whatever, 
no companionship, and was always surrounded by the horrible 
sights inseparable from such an institution. His relations 
seldom wrote to him. His sister, he said, was married to a 
man of some position in Rangoon, but she was ashamed of 

229 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


her leper brother, and had kept his existence a secret, 
consequently the financial help that the brother-in-law could 
well have afforded was not forthcoming. Yet in spite of 
everything, the poor fellow was optimistic and spoke hope- 
fully of the time when he would be cured and able to leave 
the asylum. Lepers, by what we call a merciful dispensation 
of providence are, like consumptives, always “ getting 
better: 

Things have improved since Father Damien’s time, and 
with proper precautions it is possible to live amongst lepers 
without contracting the disease. Nevertheless it is difficult 
to speak too highly of the self-sacrifice and devotion of those 
who spend their lives in the service of these poor outcasts ; 
and the fact that such institutions as I have been describing 
should be handicapped for want of funds is a bitter reproach 
to our modern money-grubbing ideals. 

In the course of my random wanderings about the native 
streets of Mandalay, | saw many groups of young Burmans 
playing the national game of “‘chin-lon,” in which a light 
basketwork ball is kept in the air with the foot, knee, thigh 
and head. As soon as the players saw they were watched, 
they redoubled their efforts and tried to show off. The more 
accomplished performers let the ball fall behind them and then 
caught it with a well-timed and dexterous back stroke of the 
foot. One particularly “swanky ”’ player was able to do a 
half-somersault at the same moment and still strike the ball 
with accuracy. The players fasten up that useful garment, 
the lungyi, so as to leave leg and thigh free, and I remarked 

230 


Tattooing 


the absence of tattooing, which used to be customary through- 
out Burma. I mentioned this afterwards to the schoolmaster 
at the Mission. He said that the practice of tattooing is 
dying out, and stated that out of 120 boys under his care, only 





CHIN-LON 


one, a jungle boy, was tattooed. This boy, moreover, gets 

so mercilessly chaffed by the others that he never fastens up 

his lungyi unless he can helpit. A few years ago the absence 
231 


al 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


of tattooing stamped a boy as a coward who had funked the 
pain incidental to the operation. Up country I saw a good 
many men with the tattooing, but they were all adults. 
The origin of the custom is unknown. Some say that it was 
designed as a preventive of a particular form of vice. This 
I doubt, and prefer the explanation suggested by a Burman, 
who said that it was originally intended as camouflage when 
hunting or fighting in the jungle, where the natural skin, 
light in colour where protected from the sun by the lungyi, 
might lead to betrayal. Although the custom of tattooing 
on a large scale is not so prevalent as it was, it is still usual 
for young Burmans so have charms tattooed upon them in 
various parts of the body. The dacoit has a cat tattooed 
upon one leg as though climbing up it; this is to enable 
him to enter a house stealthily ; and another on the other 
leg climbing downwards, to give him the power of making 
a noiseless exit. 

Sir George Scott, writing in 1882, gives the following 
account of tattooing, which he then stated seemed unlikely 
ever to die out. | 


Whatever his parents may think, the Burman youth considers 
the tattooing of his thighs quite as important a matter as his entry 
into a monastry. If he attains to the full dignity of humanity 
by becoming a “‘shin’’ (a novice in a kyaung), it is no less settled in 
his own mind that till he is tattooed in proper fashion, there may be 
doubts as to his thorough manhood. Accordingly, very often at 
a tender age, varying with the spiritedness of his character, he begins 
to get figures tattooed on various parts of his thighs. When the 
operation is finished, the whole body from the waist, in a line with the 
navel, downwards to just beyond the kneecap, is completely covered, 


232 


Tattooing 


the effect to the eye being not so much of a marking of the cuticle as 
of a skin-tight pair of calecons fitting better than the best glove ever 
made. ; 

The operation is not by any means pleasant. In fact, in 
places such as the tender inside parts of the thigh and at the joints 
of the knee it needs more stoicism than most youths can command 
to endure it without relieving the mind in speech. Therefore it is 
common to put the boy under the influence of opium while it is being 
done, though some parents will not allow this, for cases have occurred 
where the youth has died of an overdose. For the same reason it 
is very seldom that more than three or four figures are done ata 
time. The part swells up a good deal, and there is danger of fever; 
besides that, a few days afterwards the itchiness which supervenes 
is almost as intolerable as the first tattooing, while if the skin is 
broken by scratching, there is not only a nasty sore, but the figure is 
spoilt. You not uncommonly hear of cases where the whole surface 
was finished at one sitting, but you only hear of them because it is 
unusual, and because the youth is proud of it. 

The instrument used is a pricker about two feet long, weighted 
at the top with a brass figure, sometimes plain, but in the case of good 
sayas, always carved more or less elaborately in the figure of a bird, 
a nat, or a bilu (ogre) 

The tattooer catches the pricker with his right hand, and guides 
the point with a rest formed by the forefinger and thumb of his left, 
the hand resting firmly on the person’s body. The dye used is 
lamp-black, the best being that obtained by the burning of sessamun 
oil, and this is mixed with water as it is wanted. Good sayas always 
sketch the outline of the figure roughly on the skin with an ordinary 
camel’s hair brush, and then the pattern is executed with a series of 
punctures close together, forming what afterwards fades into a rough 
line ‘ 

The figures tattooed are those of all kinds of animals—tigers, 
cats, monkeys, and elephants being the commonest, while nats, 
bilus and compound animals called tiger bilus are also frequent. 
Each representation is surrounded by a rough oval tracery of a 
variety of letters of the alphabet, which forma curious and remarkably 
effective frame.” 


233 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


In addition to the regular tattooing from waist to knee, 
figures are tattooed on other parts of the body. These are 
usually charms. Most Burmans even to-day have this kind of 
tattooing upon them, whether they have the thigh tattooing 
ornot. A case is recorded where a youth was tattooed with 
a charm against drowning, and to test its efficiency was bound 
hand and foot and thrown into the Irrawaddy. He was 
never seen again. The tattooer and his assistant were 
arrested and tried and condemned for manslaughter, and, 
as in the case of the Irrawaddy fishermen previously 
mentioned, the majority of the Burmese considered they 
were hardly dealt with. 

Women are seldom tattooed, and then only with love 
charms. To quote Sir George Scott again: “ The patient 
is usually a lovesick maiden who is afraid the object of her 
affection will escape from her, or a girl whom rolling years 
warn that she must be quick if she would not be condemned 
to remain an ‘a-pyo heing,’ an old maid. Except in very 
desperate cases, however, they always manage to persuade the 
operator to place the charm on some part of the body where 
it will not be visible. If it is not effectual, there is always 
open to them the signal afforded by kindly national custom 
to maidens longing for a mate. They cut off the lappets of 
hair hanging over the ears, and the significance is the 
same as the white heather of the language of flowers, ‘ heart 
for sale.’ In Rangoon the tattooing of a woman has a 
special signification, not recognised elsewhere. It means 
that she wants an Englishman for a husband.”’ 


234 


CHAPTER XIV 


The Myingyan Bazaar—Killing a Leopard—A Pipe of Opium—A Curious 
Case—-Cheroot-making—Cotton and Pea-nuts—Shooting Snipe—A 
Buddhistic Law. 


ROM my diary : 
“January 18th, 1923. Myingyan. 

On my last night at Mandalay I gave a lecture at the 
Club and afterwards went on board the ferry-boat which was 
due to sail at daybreak. We reached Myingyan at about 
7.30 the following evening, and were met at the ferry-landing 
by a Burmese police constable, who conducted us partly by 
bullock-cart and partly by gharry to the house of the D.S.P., 
my host while I am in Myingyan. 

“The next morning I was taken into the town and 
shown the bazaar and the police station. The bazaar is 
one of the most interesting I have seen. Although not 
nearly as large as the bazaar at Mandalay, which is said to 
be the largest covered bazaar in the East, and lacking the 
riotous confusion which makes the Mandalay bazaar so 
picturesque, the Myingyan bazaar is exceedingly fascinating. 
The variety of goods for sale was astonishing. The silk 
stalls were a blaze of colour. So were the shoe and sandal 
stalls, and the stalls which displayed umbrellas. Native- 
made cloth of various colours and patterns was much in 


235 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


evidence in one particular part of the bazaar, also the 
native-made linen by the use of which the non-co-operators 
hoped to kill the trade in Manchester cotton. 

“ At the Police station we found an old jungle Burman who 
had come in from a village fifteen miles away to claim the 
Government reward for killing a leopard. He produced the 
animal’s skin as evidence and told the following story. 
The old man’s son had been aroused in the night by the 
squawking of fowls in the compound, and on looking out, 
saw a leopard making off with a chicken in its mouth. He 
shouted to his father and then pursued the leopard unarmed. 
When the father arrived on the scene of action, the son had 
the leopard on its back. The father then rushed in and cut 
the animal’s throat with his dah. The son, as might have 
been expected, was badly mauled and had to be taken to 
the hospital. We measured the skin and found it to be 
7-{t. 6-in. long. The old man departed very happy with 
notes for Rs. 50 in the fold of hislungyi. It was an amazing 
story, but on the evidence appears to have been true. The 
son must either have been very plucky or very foolish, but 
such a feat is not uncommon amongst Burmans, as another 
story told me by an eye-witness shows. It is this: 

“ The narrator, an Englishman, was visiting a jungle village 
which had lately been suffering from the depredations of a 
tiger. Some of the villagers came to the Englishman and 
asked him to shoot the beast. However, as he had only a 
shot gun with him and No. 7 cartridges, he felt himself 
unequal to the task and saidso. A little later he saw a crowd 

236 





237 


A VILLAGE SHOP 





' 

Pe ht ae 
ai tay te Vapi, af 
—_ is. P| 


















a 

) ie SEY, 
Ave Bt 
aed 











Bee eins 
A Pi LN hee ¢ bats 
} ’ 29 








A Pipe of Opium 


in the street following a cart. The cart contained the body 
of the tiger, two villagers dead, and another very badly 
mauled. Six men had gone out armed only with their dahs, 
and had succeeded at this heavy cost in despatching the 
brute. 

“From the police station we went to the opium shop. 
Opium smokers are licensed to buy a certain quantity of 
opium daily, varying from four annas’ worth to twelve annas’ 
worth. They bring with them a little book in which the 
amount issued is entered. But, in spite of all efforts to 
regulate the consumption, a large quantity of illicit opium 
is grown and sold. It is not at all a difficult matter to grow 
the poppies in some inaccessible corner without the knowledge 
of the excise officers, and the opium can be very easily 
concealed and brought into the towns amongst the vegetables 
and other produce that comes to the market. I thought I 
should like to try a pipe, so word was passed along to one of 
the opium dens in the town that we should make an 
“unofficial visit’ the next evening. It was made quite 
clear that the visit was merely one of curiosity, even though 
one of the visitors was to be the D.S.P. So the next day the 
Burmese excise officer took us along. In an ill-lighted hut 
we found several Chinese sitting and lying on a bamboo 
platform about a foot above the earthen floor. The old 
proprietor received us politely and invited us to sit down. 
A sleepy-looking Chinaman prepared the opium pipe and 
signed to me to lie down on the platform. I did so, put my 
head on a rather dirty pillow, and had a few whiffs of the 


239 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


pipe. It was rather pleasant, but quite unexciting. I had 
several more pipes (each pipe only provides about half a 
dozen pulls), but nothing whatever happened. I didn’t go 
off into a balmy slumber and dream about hourisin paradise 
—in fact my chief preoccupation was wondering what mouth 
had used the pipe before mine—nor was I affected in any way 
whatever. But the taste and smell of the opium remained 
with me for the rest of the evening. 

“January 19th. To-day I have been to the Court where a 
big case is being tried before the D.C. A Buddhist monk 
called U Weponla was arrested on December 2nd by the 
Myingyan police and charged with cheating. He had been 
living in a disused rice mill at a place called Singu, and by 
pretending to have magical powers had deceived and robbed 
a large number of credulous people, mostly women. He 
claimed that he could cure internal diseases, wounds, 
blindness and deafness. He further stated that he was 
collecting funds in order to build a pagoda, and on this 
ground extracted from his numerous patients payment in 
various forms—cash, jewellery, and goods of all descriptions 
—whether the cures were successful or not. It is quite 
probable that in some cases, by ‘faith’ on the patient’s 
part and ‘ suggestion ’ on the part of the pongyi, cures were 
actually effected. Anyhow, whether or not, his fame seems 
to have spread so rapidly that boatloads of people began to 
arrive from places even as far away as Pakokku, and in the 
course of six weeks he amassed money and goods to the 
value of Rs.60,000. He employed two silversmiths in 

240 


A Curious Case 


making ‘ peacock rupees,’ and exacted homage in the form 
of one of these coins from each person. Every patient was 
further required to bring candles—one candle for each year 
of. their age—and with these candles he illuminated his 
quarters in regal fashion. The peacock coins were sold at 
the price of Rs.3. apiece. I heard the evidence of an old 
carpenter of Singu who stated that he was nearly blind, and 
went to the pongyi to be cured. He was made to kiss the 
pongyi’s foot, and water was dropped in his eyes. The pongyi 
then asked how much he was earning and what sum he was 
prepared to give towards the building of the proposed pagoda. 
The carpenter suggested Rs.25, but the pongyi said it was a 
bad number and should be made an even amount, either more 
or less. The old carpenter then offered Rs.30. The pongyi 
said it was not enough, but eventually accepted it. The 
carpenter brought the money the next day and received 
further treatment. But his eyes got no better. Four days 
later the pongyi was arrested. 

“Much of the evidence shows that the monk was an 
ingenious fellow. He sometimes gave back a part of the 
cash that was brought him, saying that he did not want the 
money for, himself and that a smaller sum than that offered 
was sufficient as a contribution towards the building of the 
pagoda. He knew well enough that this ‘ generosity ’ 
would. be noised abroad and redound to his ultimate 
advantage. 

‘“ But there is much more behind all this than appears on 
the surface, or than is even suggested by the prosecution. 
241 

16 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


The pongyi, it is stated, had relations with many of the 
young women who came to see him, and to certain of them 
he promised that he would make them his queens. He is 
said, too, to have been wearing royal garments beneath the 





COUNSEL FOR THE DEFENCE 


yellow robes of the priesthood. He was also found in posses- 
sion of royal white umbrellas and clothes of royal velvet. 
Fans of peacock feathers—an emblem of royalty—were 
amongst the offerings given him by his adherents, as well as 
handkerchiefs and other articles embroidered with the 
same design. 

242 


A Curious Case 


“Twas shown the ‘ exhibits ’ in the case—a heterogeneous 
collection comprising robes, cushions, lacquer-work boxes 
containing tresses of women’s hair, each tress carefully 
labelled with the owner’s name and some of the names marked 
off as future queens or concubines, boxes full of scented soap, 
thanaka powder (used by women only), tins of sardines and 
tins of fruit, sticks coated with female hair, a pair of field- 
glasses, an aneroid barometer, bottles of scent with which he 
soaked himself and his bedding, and other things too numerous 
to mention. Perhaps the most interesting items of this 
curious collection were some love-charms, and two charms to 
render the wearer immune from any kind of weapon. The 
latter consisted of human teeth, not ordinary teeth, but freak 
or extra teeth, such as sometimes grow at the side of the 
gums. These were enclosed in a casing of some closely-woven 
material with a loop by which to hang them round the neck. 
The D.S.P. told me he had asked the pongyi to wear one and 
then let him have a shot with his revolver, but the invitation 
was declined. Iwas taken into the treasury and there shown 
the more valuable of the stuff seized. There were two small 
dahs, each enclosed in a belt of green velvet such as is worn 
across the shoulder by a king. One was of silver and the 
other of gold. Each had a number of loose stones—rubies, 
sapphires, emeralds, diamonds and pearls—concealed in the 
handle. There were also a number of valuable rings and 
ear-rings, gifts of his female dupes. The pongyi had 
evidently made hay whilst the sun was shining. His downfall 
was due to the action of a Burman from Myingyan, who was 


243 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


sceptical of the wonderful cures attributed to the pongyi, 
and who deprecated the monk’s alleged relations with women. 
This man went to Singu to investigate, and afterwards 
publicly denounced the pongyi as a charlatan and a seducer. 
The Police thereupon took action. 

“The case will be a long one, and unless the accused can 
prove that his cures were genuine, and that the building of a 
pagoda was really intended, he is liable to a sentence of 
seven years on each of three counts, or twenty-one years 
in all. : 

“ There is a pagoda here which was recently reported to 
throw out supernatural flames, and every night numbers of 
credulous people flocked to witness the miracle. The 
pongyi turned even this to his advantage. He said that - 
everyone must make offerings of gold-leaf to the pagoda. 
His own agents, needless to say, sold the gold-leaf. The 
explanation of the phenomenon seems to be that the flat 
plates that hang from the bottom of the ‘hti’ (Kipling’s 
‘tinkly temple bells’) get wet with dew and reflect the 
moonlight in such a way as to resemble flames. 

“January 24th. As I wanted to see something of the 
process of cheroot making, the D.S.P. sent me into the town 
with one of his Deputy Inspectors as a guide. At the first 
establishment we visited, large cheroots smoked by women 
were being made. These cheroots contain other things 
besides tobacco, though I am not sure what. The first 
procedure is to make a tube out of a large leaf and fasten 
with paste. In one end is placed a roll of some white- 


24.4 


Cheroot Making 


coloured vegetable substance, which acts as mouthpiece and 
filter. The tube is then filled with chips of tobacco-stalk and 
the other ingredients, whatever they are, and the end tucked 
in. That is the whole process. The girls squat on the floor 





CHEROOT MAKERS 


and work at a little table about six or eight inches high, on 
which are set out the various materials required. 

“ At a second shop we found women making the ordinary 
cheroots of pure tobacco. It is a common belief that cigar 
and cheroot makers roll the cigar on the naked thigh, and I 


245 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


had hopes of seeing this operation being performed. 
But my hopes were unfulfilled. The girls (to use a 
euphemism for some untidy females of indeterminate age) 
were rolling the cheroots on the surface of a table, and thighs 
were in no way conspicuous. So another cherished illusion 
went West. 

“From the cheroot makers I was taken to the factory of 
Steel Bros., on the outskirts of the town. I had often 
wondered what became of the ground-nuts which form such 
a large proportion of the freight carried by the Irrawaddy 
steamers. These nuts are the same as those called in 
America ‘ pea-nuts,’ and in England ‘ monkey-nuts,’ and 
they are grown largely in certain districts of Burma. At 
Steel’s mill I saw them being made into oil—or, rather, saw 
the oil being extracted from the nuts. One would never 
suspect what a large amount of oil these hard dry nuts 
contain. The oil itself is used for cooking, the residue being 
made into cattle food. 

“In the same factory, in other buildings, cotton is sorted 
and picked and made into bales for transport to England. 
Here Burmese coolies work a twelve-hour day in an 
atmosphere full of flying dust, while strings of bullock-carts 
keep arriving from the jungle loaded with the raw produce 
of the cotton fields. Long hours of regular and monotonous 
work would appear to be the last thing to attract a Burman, 
and consequently I was rather surprised to find so many 
Burmese employed here. The march of civilisation again, I 
suppose. 

246 


Shooting Snipe 


“Last Sunday, on the invitation of the D.C., I joined a 
party of four to go out after snipe. We started off at seven 
a.m., and drove to a lake a few miles away. It was a most 
beautiful spot. The water shone like silver. Palms stood 
out against a background of misty hills. The spires of 
pagodas rose above the nearer tree-tops, and groups of 
thatched huts ran down to the water’s edge. At a well by 
the village a group of girls and children played and laughed 
and splashed happily about. Away out on the lake men were 
fishing from graceful native canoes, while nearer inshore 
some water buffaloes were enjoying their morning dip. The 
lake edge was spangled with the white flowers of the lotus, 
and green honey-birds flashed to and fro in the sunshine. 

“Canoes and men having been secured, we crossed the lake 
to a paddy swamp opposite. Our party then split up, each 
going off on his own with a Burman in attendance. Villagers 
were at work in the swamp and ploughing operations were in 
progress, though how it is possible to plough a field that is 
a foot under water remains to me something of a mystery. 
We made our way along the narrow bunds that intersected 
the swamp, keeping a sharp look-out for snipe, and before 
long I had bagged a couple. Two birds with the first two 
shots was not bad for an amateur, and I began to think that 
snipe shooting was an easy matter. In the course of a long 
morning I became undeceived, for though I expended a good 
deal of ammunition, I did not hit another bird. The snipe 
were quick as lightning, and out of range almost before my 
slow brain had begun to work. Try as I would, I couldn’t 


247 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


get within a mile of them. Walking along the slippery 
bunds was not so easy either. Sometimes the mud was sun- 
dried and hard, but more often it was greasy and soft and 
exceedingly treacherous. At one place in trying to cross a 
particularly tricky spot, I sank in the mud over my knees. 
In my struggles to extricate myself one of my shoes got 
sucked off and I fell face downwards in the slime. My Burman 
attendant hauled me to dry ground, rescued my lost shoe, 
and helped me to scrape the worst of the mud off, and we 
resumed our murderous way. 

“One of the principal tenets of the Buddhist faith is, of 
course, never to take life. Of the two snipe I accidentally 
shot, one was not killed outright. My Burman attendant 
did not attempt to finish it off, but carried it along still 
struggling feebly, until I realised what was the matter and 
despatched the unfortunate bird myself. In essentials the 
Buddhist idea is good, but when carried to an extreme, it 
sometimes leads to terrible suffering. For instance, a 
Buddhist will turn an old and useless horse into the jungle to 
shift for itself rather than despatch it by a merciful bullet. 
The wretched animal wanders about too weak to find food, 
the crows peck out its eyes, and vultures begin to feed 
upon it before the life has left its feeble body. Can one 
imagine any fate more horrible? Even the greatest sup- 
porters of Buddhism must sometimes find it difficult to 
reconcile themselves to a literal acceptance of this law of the 
Buddha’s. On our way back from our shooting we had 
another example of what one might call the miscarriage of 

248 


A Buddhistic Law 


this Buddhistic law, though in a different direction. We 
met a party of three Burmans, one of whom was holding a 
snake at arm’s length. It was a live Russell’s viper, four 
feet long. Its evil-looking mouth, stretched wide by the 
pressure of the man’s fingers, disclosed the needle-like fangs. 
A recent meal had swollen its decorated body to ungainly 
proportions, the torpidity resulting from the meal having 
no doubt contributed to its capture. One would have 
expected a Burman—who, by reason of his bare legs and feet, 
is particularly vulnerable—to seize every opportunity of 
destroying a brute whose bite is almost invariably fatal ; 
to find him carrying one away in order to return it to the 
jungle alive is a fairly convincing proof of the hold which his 
religion has upon him.”’ 


249 


CHAPTER XV 


Rounding-up Counterfeiters. 


HEN I got back from the shooting expedition, I found 
the D.S.P. closeted in his office with three Burmans. 
All four were squatting on the floor deeply absorbed in a 
map. I went upstairs and had a bath. Then, being tired 
after my strenuous morning, I lay down for a short rest. 
About an hour later the D.S.P.camein. He had just received 
information, he said, of the whereabouts of a gang of counter- 
feiters. The Mandalay and Myingyan districts had been 
suffering greatly from a deluge of forged notes, of which 
40,000 rupees’ worth were believed to be in circulation, and 
the Police had long been wanting to trace these notes to their 
source and to lay by the heels those responsible. The 
apparatus was now said by informants to be at a village 
about twenty-five miles from Myingyan. A Police raid was 
to be made that night and would I care to come? 

“Tt will mean an all-night journey in bullock-carts,” 
said the D.S.P., ‘‘and we shall have to travel light. It 
won't be a luxurious trip.” 

But the chance of such an experience was too good to 
be missed. So I expressed my full willingness to join the 
raiding party, and proceeded to make what simple prepara- 
tions were necessary. 

250 


Rounding up Counterfeiters 


At half-past four that afternoon we started. Our party 
consisted of the D.S.P., an Indian Inspector, and myself. 
The remainder, sub-inspectors and constables, were to follow 
immediately. 

Each of us had his own cart—the ordinary Burmese 
bullock-cart with an improvised tilt of matting. On the 
floor of my cart a thick layer of kaing grass had been spread. 
This was covered with a coarse mat. My kit consisted of 
great-coat, camera, sketch-book, a haversack with shaving 
things, comb and toothbrush, and a valise containing two 
blankets and a pillow. On the D.S.P.’s cart was a luncheon 
basket with provisions, and a modest armoury of one double- 
barrelled shot-gun and a revolver. 

The utmost secrecy had been observed, as the counter- 
feiters had accomplices in Myingyan, and if any inkling of 
the intentions of the police had been allowed to leak out a 
speedy messenger would no doubt have gone on ahead of us 
with a warning. Some country carts that tried to pass us 
were stopped and made to follow owing to the same fear. 
But on our arrival at a village at about eight o’clock that 
evening, this being apparently their destination, they were 
released. 

This village was surrounded by a great hedge of thorn 
and cactus for protection against dacoits. Such a hedge 
would appear to be impassable. But it is not so impassable 
as it appears, for on a recent occasion dacoits succeeded in 
getting through a similar hedge by putting down at the 
weakest spot a bridge of maize-sheaves and boards torn 

251 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


down from the zayat outside. The entrance to the village 
was guarded by big gates, which were opened by the watch- 
man after we had stated who we were. The headman was 
interviewed and a guide provided to take us on to the next 
village, and after a halt of a quarter of an hour, we proceeded 
on our way. 

At about 9.30 the D.S.P., who had been preoccupied with 
the various arrangements and with the excitement of the 
coming capture, suddenly awoke to the fact that we had not 
yet dined. A halt was called, and we ate a hurried meal 
at the tail-board of his cart. We were soon on our way 
again, and travelling by the light of the moon, nowin the first 
quarter, we reached another village at midnight. Here the 
usual cactus hedge and big gate barred our way, and it took 
some time and a good deal of lusty shouting to arouse the 
watchman within. At last the gates were opened and we 
entered. In the middle of the village we were met by the 
headman and several sleepy villagers. The faint moonlight 
and our flickering lanterns showed us a few huts of thatch 
and matting. Pi-dogs barked from some invisible hiding- 
place, and behind one of the matting walls a baby, resenting 
the interruption of its slumbers, cried peevishly. Two women 
carefully wrapped against the cold, brought dried leaves and 
sticks and lit a fire at which our bullock-wallahs squatted to 
warm themselves, their hands spread to the blaze. 

In the meantime parleys were being conducted between 
the D.5.P. and the headman for the provision of fresh carts 
and oxen, and after some delay new carts were brought. 

252 


Rounding up Counterfeiters 


The space was narrow, and a good deal of pushing and 
manceuvering were necessary before our kit could be 
transferred and a start made. But eventually we got under 
weigh again with the new transport. The other three carts 
were left to return to Myingyan at their leisure. It was then 
one o'clock. 

I unrolled my bedding and wrapped myself in the 
blankets. The new carts had no covering or tilt, and I found 
it very pleasant to lie there looking up at the star-lit sky as 
the bullock-cart swayed and lurched and bumped over the 
rough track. Every now and then the cart dropped into a 
hole with a bang that nearly shook my teeth out, and all the 
time the axle squeaked and squawked and groaned with a 
noise not only certain to drive away every nat within 
earshot, but to drive away sleep as well. 

As far as I could make out we were passing through 
country covered with low scrub and cactus. Here and there 
a stunted tree showed black against the sky, at rare intervals 
a palm, and at still rarer intervals the spire of a pagoda. 
The stars wheeled round. The moon set. Orion set. The 
Pleiades set. The great bear stood on its head. And then 
the Southern Cross rose, soon followed by Venus. We were 
now passing through undulating country broken by small 
hills and I saw the D.S.P. get down from his cart and walk 
with his gun in his hands. It was near here, he explained, 
that the old man and his son had had the adventure with the 
leopard ; it was “‘leopard-y ’’ country, and one might cross our 
path at any moment. Almost needless to say, one didn't ! 


253 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


_ At about 3.30 we arrived at another stockaded village. 
The headman—a privileged person, armed with a gun,—and 
three or four villagers, came out to us. The D.S.P. was 
growing anxious about our slow progress. It was essential 
that we should arrive at our objective before dawn. The 
night was passing and he was uncertain how much further 
we had to go. But the Burman has only the vaguest notions 
of time and distance. He generally reckons by some such 
unit as a betel chew, or the time it takes for a man walking 
to become tired. A mile means nothing to him. An hour, 
half-hour, or minute mean nothing to him. Consequently 
it was very difficult to discover from these men how far we 
were from the village for which we were bound. Eventually 
after fruitless questions, it was decided to proceed on foot, 
leaving the carts to follow. The headman and the other 
villagers were pressed into the service and told to come along, 
whereupon one of them attempted to return home. He was 
promptly stopped by the D.S.P., who was afraid the man 
might intend to escape from the village by another gate and 
run like the wind to warn the counterfeiters of our coming. 
However, he only wanted to fetch his overcoat, and this, 
as the headman vouched for his bona-fides, he was allowed 
to do. 

We set off in single file along the rough cart-track. It 
was then 4a.m. I had an optimistic idea that we had not 
far to go, and so I plunged along happily enough in the wake 
of the rest. No one who has not tried to walk along a 
bullock-road in the dark can have any notion of the 


254 


Rounding up Counterfeiters 


difficulty. The cart-wheels cut deep ruts; the bullocks, 
being widely separated by the pole and the driver’s seat, 
walk in the ruts themselves and make them still deeper. 
Between the ruts is a mound of rough dried mud. If you 
try to walk on this mound you keep slipping first on one side 
and then on the other, whereas if you try to walk in one 
of the ruts you stumble against the steep sides. Itisachoice 
of evils. The Police Inspector is stated, in describing this 
part of the proceedings afterwards, to have said, “ the 
strange gentleman fell down the most.” Probably he did! 
But perhaps he had had less practice than the rest. 

We ploughed along in this fashion, with occasional falls 
and stumbles, for the best part of an hour. I was beginning 
to feel tired, having been practically on the move ever since 
seven o'clock on the previous morning. But still no village 
loomed in the darkness. We left the bullock-track and took 
to a side path. On and on we went. Through nullahs, 
across fields, under cactus hedges, over dry stream beds. 
The D.S.P., who was walking immediately in front of me, 
was almost invisible owing to his khaki uniform. To lag 
behind was to lose touch. Thoughts of snakes crossed my 
mind, but as I was almost the last man of our little column, 
the risk as far as I was concerned, was small. The leaders 
had the post of danger. 

At last, nearly exhausted by fatigue, we reached the 
outskirts of a village. A few minutes later we saw figures 
round a fire by a zayat. We had no wish to be prematurely 
discovered, therefore we made a detour. The village 


255 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


folk were already stirring, and we had to pass several 
houses in which lights and fires and shadowy moving forms 
were visible. Cocks began to crow and the Eastern sky 
began to lighten. It was nearly six o’clock. We hurried 
on faster than ever, and at a pagoda which showed darkly 
ahead of us, our party divided. The D.S.P. and the 
headman and two villagers went to the left, the Police 
Inspector, myself and the two remaining villagers went to the 
right. Soon we came to a gap in a hedge through which ran 
a narrow path. We took the path and eventually gained the 
bed of a dry river. On our left the ground rose slightly, 
and at the top of the rise stood a cottage of palm leaves. We 
approached and found a woman crouching over a cooking-pot 
at a small fire, The Inspector spoke to the woman, who 
pointed along the path to another similar cottage just 
visible in the faint twilight. Rays of light streamed from 
beneath the low eaves of the second cottage, and stooping 
down, we saw several people inside squatting ata fire. The 
Inspector entered and I followed, carrying the shot-gun. 
On a rough bed at the end of the hut a man lay asleep. The 
Inspector roused him. He sat up muttering sleepily, then 
he joined the group at the fire. There was no excitement. 
No one showed fight. So far it was a tame business. 

After asking me to keep guard the Inspector went back 
to the first cottage to fetch the woman we had seen there. 
I sat down on a corner of the bed with the gun across my 
knees. One of the men got up and tried to go out. I called 
him back. Then a little girl who was one of the group went 

256 


Rounding up Counterfeiters 


to the door with the intention of leaving. Ata motion from 
me she returned to her place by the fire. Nobody spoke a 
word. They just sat stolidly round the fire drinking tea from 
a great black kettle and smoking their home-made cheroots 
of white maize-leaf. It seemed incredible that this could be 
a den of forgers. 

As the light strengthened I could better see my surround- 
ings. The hut was built on the bare ground. Twisted tree- 
stems served for supports. The roof, black and rough, and 
sloping steeply to within a couple of feet of the earthen 
floor, was made of bamboo framework with palm-leaf 
thatching. The two end walls were similarly made, but 
with less of a slope. The furniture consisted of two wooden 
beds, a few dirty pillows, some bedding, a spear or two, 
and the blackened stones on the floor in the middle which 
served for a fireplace. There was nothing else in the place, 
and a more poverty-stricken habitation for human beings 
could hardly be imagined. At one end of the hut accumula- 
tions of manure made it evident that it also served as a 
stable, though there were no beasts there at the time. 

The D.S.P. and his party had now joined up with us, and 
the woman from the other hut had been added to the 
group over which I was mounting guard. I had now five 
prisoners, an old man, his wife, his son, and another man, 
as well as the little girl. The poor child watched me with 
wide-open frightened black eyes. I wouldn’t have hurt 
her for the world—though she didn’t know this. And my 
gun was not loaded. 

257 


17 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


About an hour later three men came through a gap in the 
hedge. When they caught sight of the Police, who were 
searching the garden, they attempted flight. But the 
D.S.P. went after them, revolver in hand, and soon 
brought them back. There was a good deal of commotion, 
as I could see by stooping down and looking out from 
beneath the low roof, but what it was all about I did 
not know until the D.S.P. came into the hut triumphantly 
brandishing a packet of forged notes. These had been found 
on one of the three men, after an unsuccessful attempt on 
his part to get rid of the notes by throwing his cloak on to the 
ground and the packet withit. There were ninety counterfeit 
five-rupee notes in the packet. The man was apparently 
one of those engaged in passing the notes and, in coming to 
visit the other members of the gang had walked right into 
the arms of the Police. 

My prisoners now began to show unmistakable signs of 
agitation. The old man, in particular, could hardly hold his 
cheroot because of the trembling of his hands. The two 
younger men exchanged meaning glances, and one went to 
the edge of the hut better to watch the progress of the 
search. The woman was the only one to keep perfect control 
of herself. She sat by the fire with a sardonic smile playing 
about her squat features, and smoked on steadily and 
imperturbably. The girl, still eyeing me with fear, wrapped 
her cloak about her and snuggled up closer to her mother. 

At this point I thought a little ‘“‘ demonstration ” 
advisable. Things were getting serious and the men might 

258 


Rounding up Counterfeiters 


try to run away. SolI tooka couple of cartridges from my 
pocket and loaded the gun before their faces. They should 
see that I meant business. 

The searchers meanwhile continued to tramp round the 
garden, looking under heaps of leaves, in thickets, and 
everywhere it seemed likely that apparatus might be hidden. 
But the only thing they found was an empty egg-shell con- 
taining a torn and crumpled counterfeit note. The note, 
however, bore the same series-number as the notes in the 
captured packet; and, as white of egg was known to have 
been used by the forgers to make the watermark, the find was 
not altogether negligible. 

At nine o’clock the D.S.P. came to me rather despondently. 
He had learnt that another batch of local police had been 
beforehand and had searched the place only the preceding 
day, though without success. It seemed probable that 
nothing more would be discovered. I told him that the 
demeanour of my prisoners had made it quite clear to me 
that the things were actually hidden in the garden, despite 
the fact that the search had so far failed to unearth them. 
Also, as the D.S.P. remarked, nothing was easier than to dig 
a hole in the ground and conceal anything incriminating. 
He therefore conceived the idea of sending for 150 villagers, 
announcing that rewards would be given for anything that 
might be found, and setting them to work en masse. Half- 
an-hour later they arrived, carrying spears and dahs, and 
began prodding the ground around the cottages and hunting 
here, there and everywhere. For a while nothing happened. 


259 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


But presently a find was made. Then another. And then 
still another. And so the search went on, until by mid-day 
the whole apparatus—printing press, dies, ink, rollers, paper 
and bundles of notes—was in the hands of the police. 

The raid had been a triumphant success. 

We were now all very exhausted. We therefore made 
our way to the village, and at the P.W.D. bungalow found 
the bullock-carts with our kit. A well-earned breakfast 
followed, and then a couple of hours’ sleep. Finally the three 
prisoners, handcuffed and chained together, were sent off 
in charge of some Burman Police constables and a sub- 
inspector, and the D.S.P. proceeded to write up his report. 
This occupied him until nearly eight o’clock that night. 
We then had a meal consisting of rice and various curries 
and condiments prepared in the Burmese style—and at 
9.30 got into our bullock-carts to travel to Sameikkon in 
order to catch the river ferry on the next day back to 
Myingyan. I was so tired that I slept in the cart, notwith- 
standing the jolting and noise, until we reached the bungalow 
at Sameikkon, four hours later. There, half-asleep, I watched 
my kit being transferred from the bullock-cart; then I 
rolled myself in my bedding on the floor and slept like a log 
until morning. 


260 


CHAPTER XVI 


Initiation to the Priesthood—Ear-boring—At Sameikkon— 
The Missing Wife—Opium Smuggling—A Railway Journey—Back in 
Rangoon—A Pwe—Pitfalls in the Burmese Language—Home again. 


AMEIKKON proved to be a large village—or a small 
GS town—of one long, wide street, shaded with tamarind 
trees and palms, and swarming with pi-dogs in every state 
of manginess and decrepitude. I found it advisable to 
provide myself with a stick to keep the snarling brutes 
away, for rabies is common in Burma, and I had no desire 
to become one of the numerous patients undergoing the 
Pasteur treatment at Rangoon hospital. 

Halfway down the village a wooden platform was in 
course of erection, of such width as to block the street 
completely to all but pedestrian traffic. This platform, which 
had a light bamboo framework above, evidently designed to 
carry some sort of roofing, was large enough to accommodate 
a hundred or more people. Enquiries elicited the informa- 
tion that a double ceremonial was shortly to take place upon 
it—the initiation of a youth into the priesthood, and the 
ear-boring of a girl. As both ceremonies are important 
and usual events in the life of young Burma, a short account 
of each, from The Burman, His Life and Notions, may be of 
interest. 

261 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


“On the appointed day,’ says Sir George Scott, “the young 
neophyte dresses in his finest clothes, and loads himself with all the 
family gold chains and jewellery, and as much more as he can borrow 
for the occasion. He then mounts a pony or gets into a richly 
decorated car. Shaded by gold umbrellas, allowed formerly on this 
occasion only in Upper Burma, except to those who had got a special 
patent for them from the sovereign, he passes at a footpace through 
the village. A band of music goes before ; all his friends and relatives 
crowd round him decked in their gayest ; the young men dancing and 
singing vociferously ; the girls laughing and smiling, with powdered 
faces and brilliant dresses. Thus he goes in succession to the houses 
of his relations and of all the local officials, to do them the obeisance 
due from a younger member of the family, and to bid them farewell. 
They in turn contribute money towards the expense of the band, 
and the solace of the supernumeraries. : 

““When the round of visits has been duly carried out, the pro- 
cession turns back to the parents’ house, where in the meantime the 
final preparations for the induction and subsequent feast have been 
concluded. The head of the kyaung to which the young postulates 
are to be admitted, together with several ofhis brother monks, are 
seated at the back of the room on a raised dais, in front of which 
are ranged the presents intended for the mendicants—heaps of fruit, 
cooked food, mats, yellow cloth, and so on. The ‘ Talapoins,’ 
seated in a row, carefully hold up the large lotus-leaf-shaped fans 
before their faces to shut out from view the female portion of the 
assemblage. Never is the command to the holy community not to 
look on woman more necessary and more arduous to observe than at 
a shin-pyu pwe. Burma’s fairest daughters are assembled, bright 
in rainbow skirts and neckerchiefs, drowsy-scented flowers in the 
jetty tresses, jewellery flashing on the bosom, the fingers and ears, 
the fragrance of thanaka lingering over the smiling faces. Terrible 
trial it is for the young monk, if any such there be in the gaing ok’s 
following, and more imperative the concentration of the mind on the 
Payeit Gyi and other portions of the sacred writ which are loudly 
chanted as the postulates return, and the assembly shikhoes to the 
pongyis, and settles down to observe the proceedings. The boy 
throws off all his fine clothes and jewellery, and binds a piece of white 


262 


bese CCAS ‘> 


a = 





IN A VILLAGE STREET 


263 





Be 








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K * 
Ye Peg h 
, ani 
3 Fr Peat: Shr Aas 
\ AMEE iy Le 
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Initiation to the Priesthood 


cloth round his loins. Then his long hair is cut off close to the head. 
Often the locks are as much as three or four feet long, and are carefully 
preserved by the mother or sister, the latter often making them up 
into ta-su, the tails of hair twisted in with her own to increase the 
size of her sa-d6n—the knot of hair she wears at the back of her head. 
When the hair has been cut the head is carefully shaved, the boy hold- 
ing it over acloth held by some of his relations. After this the head 
is washed in the usual way with a decoction of the seeds and bark of 
the kin-b6n thi, and rubbed well with saffron. A bath is then taken, 
and once more he puts on the bright paso, and repairs to the presence 
of the monks. Near at hand the parents have set ready the thingan, 
belt, ko-wut, and other yellow robes, the begging-pot, and other 
requisites of the shin. The boy comes forward, prostrates himself 
three times, raises his hands joined in reverence, and begs, in a Pali 
formula got up by heart, to be admitted to the holy assembly asa 
neophyte, that he may walk steadily in the path of perfecticn, 
enjoy the advantages which result therefrom, and finally attain to 
the blessed state of Ne’ban. The kyaung po-go with his own hands 
gives him the garments ; heis duly robed ; the thabeit is hung round 
his neck by the strap, and then itis announced formally that he is 
a member of the monastery. He falls in among the other novices 
who have come with the mendicants. The abbot perhaps exhorts 
the assembly for a short time, and then rising while all the people 
do obeisance, walks off slowly to the monastery, whither the newly- 
appointed ko-yins follow him, not unlikely helping to carry the 
presents which have been given at their induction.” 


Of the ear-boring ceremony Sir George Scott gives the 
following account : 


“The first great event ina Burmese girl’s life is the na-twin 
mingala, the boring of the ears. She is not out of the doll stage till 
that happens. She may have toddled after her mother to the market 
with a basket of fruit on her head, long before the ear-boring, but that 
ceremony is as much an epoch to her as putting on the yellow robe 

isto her brother. . . . Thena-twin mingala transforms 
the girl into a woman, just as such an admission to the monastery 
makes the bbyaman. .. . 


265 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


“The ceremony takes place at the age of twelve or thirteen, 
just when the girl has attained puberty in fact. Her sada, is sub- 
mitted to a soothsayer, that a fortunate day and hour may be 
chosen, and that being fixed, a great feast is prepared, and all the 
friends of the family and the relations are invited. An invitation 
to an ear-boring feast is a very urgent matter. No one can refuse 
without a very good excuse, and serious business is often postponed 
to the demands of such a ceremony. Everybody comes early, and 
sits down in any place he can find round about the front part and sides 
of the room, the girl, with all her female relatives about her, reclining 
on a mat at the back. The bedin saya stalks about gazing at a 
mysterious strip of palm-leaf; or apparently wrapped in deep 
thought. Beside him is the professional ear-borer. He carries the 
needles, which are almost always pure gold, and in even the case of 
the poorest, never of any baser metal than silver. Rich people very 
often have them set at the ends with precious stones. At last the 
soothsayer gives the sign that the favourable moment has arrived. 
The ear-borer moves up immediately and passes the needles through 
the lobe of the ears, sometimes using a cork as they do in England, 
but more often letting them pass between two of his fingers. The 
girl, who has been worked up into a high state of excitement and 
terror by all the preparations, usually struggles and shrieks as hard 
as she can, but the women round about hold her down, and the band 
of music in the street outside strikes up a rapid movement and drowns 
her lamentations, while all the visitors burst into a flood of talk and 
reminiscences of other ceremonies of the kind that they have 
witnessed. Usually the gold needle is bent round and left in the 
wound, but poor people sometimes pass a string through and tie it.” 


At the other end of the village on the river bank near the 
steamer landing I found the major part of the female popu- 
lation hard at work washing clothes and babies, and taking 
an occasional dip themselves. Statuesque young girls went 
to and from the river with water chatties on their heads. 
Children, as innocent of clothing as on the day they were born, 


played in the sand or paddled at the river’s edge. Wooden 
266 


At Sameikkon 


beaters in the hands of energetic washerwomen flashed in the 
sun and punctuated the laughter and chatter with rhythmic 
blows. The Irrawaddy glittered under the wide expanse of 
blue sky. The palms and tamarinds that hid the village 
swayed gently in the breeze. I sat down on the bank 





WASHERWOMEN 


absorbing the warmth, the colour, the movement, the sense 

of space and freedom. No wonder, I thought, the Burmese 

are a happy people! Who could be otherwise in such 

surroundings ? And my mind travelled back to England 

with its slums, its sordid mean streets, its barrack-like 
267 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


tenements, its unlovely suburbs, its hordes of poor children 
whose sole playground is the gutter, its public-houses, its 
gin-palaces, its thousands of unemployed, its grinding 
poverty, its vulgar wealth, and its invincible pride in the 
achievements of civilisation. What a contrast ! 

On the bank above the steamer landing stood a banyan 
tree, its roots, exposed by the action of the water in the 
rainy season, spreading in a tangled network for yards around 
the base of the trunk. Here I settled down to await the 
arrival of the ferry-boat. A kindly Burman, seeing me 
sitting there, brought from his hut a real European chair, 
which he offered me with an engaging mixture of pride and 
deference. Later the D.S.P. and the Sub-Inspector arrived 
from the dak bungalow with our kit and the printing-press 
and other fruits of the raid. The ferry-boat, however, was 
two hours late, and it was 8.30, and of course quite dark, 
before we eventually reached Myingyan. Bullock-carts 
brought us across the wide stretch of sand and through the 
town. Three quarters of an hour later we were approaching 
the D.S.P.’s house. He got down from the cart and waved 
a lantern. 

“My wife will be looking out for us,” he said. ‘‘ You'll 
see her signal back in a minute.”’ 

But no answering signal came. 

The D.S.P. waved the lantern again. 

Still no reply. 

“I can’t make it. out,” said the D.S.P., waving the 
lantern harder than ever. 

268 


The Missing Wife 


The bullock-carts continued their slow way. We passed 
through the gate into the grounds. Still no answering light 
showed ahead. The house was dark. | 

“ Most extraordinary !’”’ grumbled the D.S.P. “ What- 
ever can my wife be thinking of ? ”’ 

We reached the entrance. No lights! No servants! 
No wife! A cold welcome indeed for a D.S.P. returning 
in triumph with the spoils of victory ! 

“Most disappointing,’ muttered the D.S.P. Then he 
shouted. A faint answering cry came from the servants’ 
compound at the back. But still no sign of the welcoming 
wife, and, what to me seemed worse, no sign whatever of 
dinner. 

Eventually, however, dinner materialised, and finally the 
erring but unrepentant wife was run to earth at the Deputy 
Commissioner’s, where she had gone to dine after receiving a 
telegram from her husband which said “ Returning 
to-morrow.” This telegram, which should have come the 
previous day, had been delayed, and consequently the 
immediate arrival of the hero was unexpected. Explana- 
tion made everything clear, and the cloud on the domestic 
horizon melted away to nothing. Once more smiling and 
happy, the D.S.P., despite the lateness of the hour, went 
off with his trophies to the D.C.’s. I went to bed. 

The three prisoners whom we had brought back with us— 
I had seen then squatting in chains on the after-deck of the 
ferry-steamer—were subsequently tried and given the stiff 
sentence of fourteen years’ penal servitude. Counterfeiting 


269 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


notes as a means of livelihood appears to have its drawbacks. 
Probably it is wiser to swindle one’s fellows by one of the 
simpler and more customary methods sanctioned by the law 
and by the conscience of a law-abiding people. But, for 
those who still prefer the illicit, a safer and surer way of 
making money—safer, I mean, than counterfeiting bank- 
notes—is offered by opium smuggling. Opium is valuable 
in proportion to its bulk, and is consequently very portable 
and easy to conceal. 

In defiance of all the efforts of the excise officers, illicit 
opium continues to be grown and sold in considerable 
quantitiesin Burma, and many ingenious devices are employed 
by the Burmese smugglers for transporting it and hiding 
it from the revenue officials. At one time, not long ago, 
a certain boat came frequently into Rangoon harbour and 
cleared cargoes of opium under the very noses of the 
excisemen. Though she was searched time and again from 
stem to stern, on trace of opium could be found. At last 
one of the officials had a brain-wave. He noticed, as he went 
aboard the revenue launch, after the usual fruitless search, 
a long fender hanging from the side of the suspected craft. 
He probed it with his pocket-knife, and at once the secret was 
out. The fender was full of opium. 

A still more subtle method was employed by a certain 
Chinaman about whom the excise officials at Mandalay had 
received what they believed to be reliable information. 
The Chinaman was said to be about to travel from Mandalay 
to Rangoon by the ferry-steamer, with a large quantity of 

270 


Opium Smuggling 


opium concealed in his kit. An excise officer went aboard 
the boat and there he found the Chinaman squatting on the 
after-deck. When the search warrant was produced, the 
suspect smiled the bland smile of the Celestial and waved his 
hand towards his belongings, which lay on the deck near by, 
covered with a tarpaulin. The exciseman removed the 
tarpaulin and went through everything with great care. 
There was no opium there. He examined the kit a second 
time, searching in every corner and crevice. He took 
measurements in case there might be a false bottom to the 
Chinaman’s box. The measurements disclosed nothing 
suspicious. Much puzzled, he replaced the tarpaulin. The 
face of the Chinaman still wore a bland and inscrutable smile. 
The smile annoyed him. He knew that the information 
was sound. And yet where on earth was the stuff hidden ? 
He raised his hand and gave his moustache a thoughtful 
tug. Then he jumped. His hand smelt strongly of opium. 

For some time he hesitated in bewilderment. It was 
obvious that somehow and somewhere his hand had come 
into contact with the object of his search. Then an idea 
struck him. He examined the tarpaulin and found the 
solution of the problem. The tarpaulin itself was made 
of opium. 

The pay of the excise officer is very small and this 
handicaps him. One whom I met in Rangoon told me that 
when he first came out to Burma as a young man he was 
sent to a district where opium smuggling was rife. His pay 
was only Rs.150 a month, which is, if anything, rather less 

271 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


than the minimum upon which a European can subsist. His 
predecessor in office had been a Burman who appeared to be, 
and no doubt was, quite well-to-do. The local smugglers, 
it transpired, had found it worth their while to pay this man 
Rs. 300 a month to be elsewhere when the ferry-boat called, 
and being a Burman, he naturally accepted the bribe. The 
same men approached the new excise officer with a similar 
offer, which was, no doubt to their great astonishment, 
peremptorily declined, and only had the effect of increasing 
the determination of the new exciseman to put a stop to 
the smugglers’ game. 

In order to do so it would be necessary, he knew, to gain 
a hold somehow upon the local folk. And as an appeal to 
their credulity and belief in magic seemed the most likely 
method of obtaining it, he devised and carried out the follow- 
ing ingenious plan. He let it be known that he possessed 
a power which rendered him immune from bullets, and 
offered to prove it by allowing himself to be shot at. For 
some time no one could be persuaded to fire the testing shot. 
Eventually an old villager consented. The exciseman in the 
meantime had made his preparations. Having extracted the 
bullet from a revolver cartridge, he inserted in its place an 
imitation bullet made of flour and water and coloured with 
black-lead. He reckoned that it would disintegrate when 
fired and at a reasonable range could do him no harm. 

When the time for the test arrived he loaded the revolver 
before the assembled villagers, handed it to the old man, 
and removed himself to a safe distance. 

272 


A Railway Journey 


As the old Burman fired, the exciseman jumped to the 
left, and, producing the real bullet from his mouth, proceeded 
to abuse the old man vigorously for not shooting straighter. 
He had only just managed to catch the bullet, he said, and 
the experiment had by this carelessness been very nearly 
spoilt. 

The old Burman and all the onlookers were, of course, 
duly impressed, and no doubt as to the genuineness of the 
experiment ever entered their simple heads. The excise- 
man’s prestige was firmly established. To aman who could 
catch a bullet, to catch smugglers was an easy matter. A 
month or so later he had them all by the heels, and their 
domicile for the next few years was the convict settlement in 
the Andaman Islands. 

It was now time for me to return to Rangoon. I said 
good-bye tomy Myingyan friends with reluctance, and left 
by train for Thazi Junction, in order to catch the night mail 
there. If there is a worse bit of line in the world than that 
between Myingyan and Thazi I have no desire to travel by 
it. The carriage rocked so badly that it was quite impossible 
even to read. I went second-class; contrary to accepted 
custom, for the Europeans, careful of their prestige, usually 
travel first. But I thought that the mixed company of the 
second class was more likely to prove interesting than the 
more exclusive company I should encounter in the first class. 
Perhaps the third class would have been more interesting still ; 
but the mass of perspiring humanity that crowded the thirds 
was more than even I could stomach. The second class 

273 


18 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


turned out to be quite comfortable and not at all crowded. 

.The greater part of the way to Thazi my only companion 
was an Indian gentleman whose luggage consisted of an 
earthenware chatty full of water and an enamelled mug. 

The stations were busy places. Sellers of sweetmeats 
and various eatables paraded up and down the platform 
with their wares in flat baskets on their heads. A noisy crowd 
carrying boxes, bundles, and all sorts of gear, jostled one 
another and talked and shouted at the top of their voices. 
A railway station in the East is pandemonium itself, and an 
astonishing contrast to the dignified and orderly quiet of the 
average railway station in England. 

I had telegraphed to the stationmaster at Thazi for a 
reserved berth, and as soon as the express arrived from 
Mandalay I was put into a compartment already occupied 
bya Burmanand his wife, anda vast amount of kit—rugs, 
carpets, cushions, baskets, and a great branch of bananas 
to help support the rigours of the journey. They were 
quiet, unassuming folk, and soon settled down for the night 
at opposite ends of the berth on the other side of the carriage 
tomyown. At about 6.30 the next morning my boy brought 
me tea and biscuits, and at 8 o’clock we reached Rangoon. 
The journey was perfectly comfortable, and, prestige apart, 
there is little objection to second-class travel in Burma. In 
fact, some Englishmen in a first-class compartment next to 
my second, with whom I got into conversation, when they 
found how comfortable I was, expressed regret at having 
unnecessarily wasted their money on first-class fares. 


274 


Back in Rangoon 


Rangoon seemed hot and stuffy after the drier air of 
Upper Burma. Even now, though only the end of January, 
the short “‘cold”’ weather was coming to an end, and the heat 
becoming oppressive. The sun blazed down on the dusty 
streets and glaring white buildings, until one longed for 
coloured glasses to relieve the eyes—an amenity for which 
personally I never felt the need elsewhere, even on the 
Irrawaddy. 

The social life of the European population was in full 
swing, with dinner-parties, dances, and other functions almost 
every night. The Englishman as usual was doing his best 
to mitigate the drawbacks of exile. Tennis tournaments, 
polo, racing, motoring, boating and bathing helped to fill 
the leisure daylight hours. Racing in particular seemed 
exceedingly popular with all classes and all nationalities. 
The Rangoon race-course on a racing Saturday is a wonderful 
sight, owing to the brightly-coloured clothes of the Burmese. 
The totalisator does a roaring trade, while backers who 
prefer the personal touch transact their business at the 
bookmaker’s booths. The races are very well managed and 
the evil reputation of Rangoon racing is not borne out by 
appearance. The handicapping is remarkable, or was on the 
day I was present, when in eight races no more than two 
lengths separated the first horse from the last. I doubt 
whether nowadays there is any more chicanery in Rangoon 
racing than there is in racing at home, whatever 
irregularities may have been customary in the past. 

In pursuit of amusement the Burman does not by any 


275 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


means lag behind the European, though the Burmese and 
European idea of what constitutes amusement does not 
always, as in racing, coincide. The ‘“ pwe”’ so dear to the 
heart of the Burman seems to the Englishman an enter- 
tainment dreary and boring to the last degree. I found one 
of these festivals in full swing a short distance from Blake’s 
house. A stage had been erected on some vacant land at the 
side of the main road. Powerful petrol lamps lit it. The 
whole of the space in front was occupied by Burmese women 
sitting, squatting, and lying on mats. Many had babies 
with them. The male portion of the audience stood or squatted 
in a wide semi-circle in the rear. On the outskirts of the 
crowd were numerous stalls and booths, whose proprietors 
sold comestibles of various kinds made on the spot—ice cream, 
oranges and bananas, and “soft” drinks of every kind, 
colour and flavour. Cheroots for the smokers and betel 
nut for the chewers were also available. 

When I arrived two dancing girls occupied the stage. 
They appeared to be about twelve or thirteen years old. To 
music supplied by a Burmese band, such as I have described 
elsewhere, these children, for they were no more, swayed, 
postured and pirouetted within the narrow limits imposed 
by their clothing. They wore the traditional costume of the 
Burmese dancing-girl with lungyis so tightly wrapped round 
their legs that their knees appeared to be fastened firmly 
together—the very antithesis of the Western ballet skirt. 
This dancing performance, such as it was, continued for what 
seemed an interminable time. Meanwhile I stood in the 


276 


A Pwe 


crowd waiting with such patience as I could command. 
Surely, I thought, something will happen soon! I was not 
yet aware that in a Burmese theatrical performance nothing 
ever happens. 

At last, after about an hour, the dance came to an end 
and the curtain fell. A buzz of chatter ensued. Food was 
produced, cheroots were re-lit, mats were re-arranged, babies 
soothed and fed, and a few minutes later the audience settled 
down to another act. The curtain rose, disclosing four men 
seated on a form in a stiff row. Then followed at lengthy 
conversation on the part of two of the four, the remaining 
couple staying totally passive and totally uninterested save 
for an occasional casual remark thrown in at long intervals. 
As the dialogue was worse than Greek to me and there was 
no action whatever, I had not an inkling of what it was all 
about. That it had some point, however, for the audience 
was evidenced by their exclamations and laughter. 

Again I waited for something to happen, and again nothing 
happened. I grew more and more bored, and more and 
more tired, until at last I could bear it no longer, and went 
home to bed. The show would go on, I was assured, until 
four o’clock the next morning, and be continued every night 
for a week. An actor must surely be the hardest-worked 
individual in Burma. Whether his pay is at all adequate I 
have no notion, but as there is no charge for admission, and 
the whole entertainment is provided out of one generous and 
philanthropic pocket, it is not likely to be anything consider- 
able. Probably the combined wages of every actor and 


277 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


dancer in Burma would not amount to a fraction of the salary 
of one popular American film-star. 

Another, and a larger, pwe was in progress, I was told, in 
the centre of the city. Hoping it might prove more enter- 
taining than the last, I went down one evening to see it. A big 
stage had been erected almost opposite the Sule Pagoda. The 
whole street, at this point of considerable width, was a solid 
mass of people, sitting, squatting, standing, and lying on mats. 
The crowd even extended for some distance down the street 
on either side, though those on the outskirts can hardly have 
obtained more than a sidelong glimpse of the stage, if they 
could seeitatall. Thisdidn’tseemto matter. There they 
were, at the pwe, and there they were prepared to stay for 
hours, even though they could hear very little and see nothing. 

Pongyis occupied the parapet of the pagoda, which, to 
my surprise, was also shared by a number of Burmese girls. 
The rules of the priesthood have evidently been relaxed. 
In the old days such an arrangement would have been out of 
the question, for then no pongyi was allowed to look at a 
woman, while anti-feminism was carried to such lengths that 
even hens were barred from the monastery precincts. 

For some time I stood with my back to the pagoda wall 
watching the performance from a distance. It was too far 
for the actors’ voices to carry, and even the penetrating nasal 
tones of a female singer were only just audible, though this 
was partly due to the hum of conversation in the audience, - 
for everyone talked, at all events on the outer edge of the 
crowd where I was. A troup of male dancers first occupied 

278 


Pitfalls in the Burmese Language 


the stage. The performers were not dressed in Burmese 
costume, but wore short jackets and trunk-hose over tights, 
and resembled the chorus of a third-rate pantomime at home. 
The pants of one member of the troup kept slipping down and 
appearing beneath his trunk hose, and his unavailing efforts 
to tuck them out of sight and to keep on dancing at the same 
time brought the only glimmer of fun into the otherwise 
extremely dull proceedings. 

The dancers were succeeed by a female singer and two 
clowns—a recognised and familiar feature of a pwe. I 
watched their performance with the uncomprehending eyes of 
the Britisher and found it very tedious. Eventually, as it 
showed no immediate sign of coming to an end, I struggled 
out of the crowd and, envying the Burmese their evident 
capacity for being easily amused, went home. 

The Burmese language, as I have already mentioned, 
contains no ‘ 


ce >) 


“yes ’”’ or “no,” no “ good-morning, good- 
night,”’ or “‘ good-bye,” or any form of either greeting or 
valediction. The weather, moreover, being constant, is 
valueless as a small-talk topic and provides none of the 
tentative openings which are found so useful in less favoured 
climates. This lack of conversational commonplaces proves 
difficult to the European who is so thoroughly accustomed to 
making several false casts before finally dropping his fly on 
the conversational water. On being introduced to a Burman 
for the first time, however, it is permissible to pave the way 
by some remark equivalent to the ‘‘ pleased to meet you ”’ 
of America, but, since Burmese words possess several different 


279 


PRE E 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


significations according to inflection and pronunciation, the 
beginner will be well-advised to tread warily. 

An Englishwoman of my acquaintance who had only 
recently arrived in Burma was about to call on a Burmese 
lady upon whom she was particularly anxious to make a 
good impression. She mustered her scanty stock of Burmese 
and composed a sentence which she believed to mean “ Iam 
greatly honoured to make your acquaintance.’ She 
practised it beforehand until she had, as she imagined, got it 
quite pat. The call was made and the sentence duly fired off. 
At once a half-suppressed ‘titter went round the assembled 
company, making it only too clear that something had gone 
wrong. When the poor lady returned home she discovered 
to her horror, that a slight mispronunciation had converted 
her apparently harmless remark into “I see you are about 
to have a baby.” 

My time in Burma was now drawing to a close, but I 
had one more experience which is worth chronicling. This 
was a visit to the Parliament Buildings where the newly- 
elected Legislative Council was sitting. The President, or 
speaker, sat beneath a canopy at the top of the hall. The 
members—mostly Burmese, but including British, Anglo- 
Indian, and (I think I am correct in stating) Indian—sat at 
desks on each side and at the bottom. I sat amongst the 
visitors in the gallery, whence we had a good view of the 
proceedings. The scene was a bright one, owing to the 
cheerful colours of the Burmese costumes and the rows of 
yellow and orange gaung-baungs on the heads of the Burmese 

280 


Home Again 


members. It was the second session of the newly-consti- 
tuted Parliament and the proceedings opened with questions. 
Everything was conducted in accordance with Western 
Parliamentary traditions, and all the customary routine was 
observed. I found it tedious and almost began to imagine 
myself at home in the dull West, until a member put a 
question which brought me back with a start to the East 
again. He asked whether it might not be advisable to pass 
legislation to control, or forbid, the tattooing of charms on the 
body. The suggestion, however, was not received with 
favour—probably, I imagine, because there was not a 
Burman in the assemblage whose cuticle had escaped the 
tattooer’s needle. One Burmese member to whom I after- 
wards spoke confessed to having a bird tattooed upon him. 
This was a charm to make him swift. He was a portly 
gentleman, and no doubt needed something of the kind. 


On February 6th I sailed for home, and early one 
morning, about a month later, found myself in Southampton 
Water. The spell of the East was still upon me, and it was 
hard to realise that I was back again. A tender came 
alongside and a paper boy came aboard. We had had no news 
for some time, so I bought and opened one of the great journals 
that control the destinies of the British race, help it, mother 
it, educate it, and guide it to higher things. A headline 
caught my eye. - Across a column in big black capitals ran 
an arresting sentence. It thrilled me through and through. 
Yes, there could be no doubt about it, I was really at home! 

281 


Peacocks and Pagodas 


The glamour of the East was dissipated in a flash. I might 
almost never have been there at all. I hurried to the saloon 
with my paper and devoured with throbbing pulses a column 
of print, instinct with the fire and imagination of journalistic 
genius, describing nothing less than “ The Royal Baby’s 
First Train Ride.’ 

So ended my trip to Burma ; land of sunshine; land of 
ignorance—the ignorance that is bliss; land of childish 
superstition and simple faith; land of the yellow robe; 
land of silk; land of the primitive passions; lotus-land 
where time is not money but far more precious ; where money 
has little intrinsic value and misers are not ; land of laughing 
children ; land of colour; and, above all, land of happiness 
—the happiness that is born of content. Civilisation in its 
ruthless march is knocking at the door—has, in fact, its foot 
well over the threshold. Whether it will advance further, 
whether its advantages will outweigh its disadvantages, 
whether it will ultimately improve the Burman or spoil 
him, are questions that Time must answer. Only one thing 
is certain—however much it may increase his material comfort 
it will never add one iota to his happiness. 


282 





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